


Birthright

by DwaejiTokki



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, Aladdin AU, Camelot, Cave, Gen, Lamp - Freeform, NaNoWriMo, Princess guinevere, Sword in the Stone, Thief, dragon - Freeform, lake, pauper arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-08-28 22:23:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8465215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwaejiTokki/pseuds/DwaejiTokki
Summary: A witch in disguise, an artifact guarded by an ancient dragon, a heartbroken princess, and a thief with a forgotten birthright. Everything is wrong and not what it seems, but it all comes full circle in the end, and all is as it should be.





	1. Prolog

**Author's Note:**

> Something I'm doing for NaNoWriMo. It's a work in progress, but I will add as I finish chapters.

Prolog

            “Come now, what have you got to lose?”

            The young man’s steely eyes darted toward the hunched old crone beside him, a pair of cunning eyes sunken in a wrinkled face gleaming in the moonlight. The ethereal white hair that framed her face was knotted unattractively. He looked back toward the gaping black mouth of the cave, the never-ending darkness seemingly impenetrable. Even the grass dared not to grow near the entrance. But he was not afraid.

            “It is not what I have to lose, crone,” he said after a moment. The wind whistled through the looming trees, rustling the green leaves. Somewhere in the distance a wolf alerted its pack to its presence. “I do have a son. If I die, he will have no one.”

            “But you will not die!” exclaimed the ancient woman, spreading her arms. Her ratty black cloak opened to reveal a shining girdle studded with green emeralds, but before the young man could see it she had lowered her appendages once more. “I have come to you for help because I have heard of your prowess in battle, Uther.”

            He was unmoved by her flattery. Uther stared steadily at the cavern entrance, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “I have never faced a dragon, crone.”

            “They are not as great as they are made to be in stories, Uther,” she smiled patronizingly. “Just think, Uther, of the horde of treasure within! It can all be yours—if you bring me the thing that I want, the one thing to which I lay claim.”

            “Your family relic,” Uther said calmly. “I see no reason, still, why I should do all this for your benefit. Regardless of whether the dragon is small and weak or huge and mighty, it will have many advantages over me. Magic. Fire. Familiar territory.”

            The old crone shuffled forward and grasped the rough sleeve at his elbow. He looked down his nose at her, face stern. “Uther, you have been removed from your rightful place. Your brothers murdered, your throne stolen, and your sister Caelia—have you forgotten what atrocities Vortigern did to her? Her screams as he—“

            “ _Enough_ ,” Uther hissed angrily, snatching his arm away from her. His brow furrowed, made fiercer by the scar that traveled from his right eyebrow to his scalp. “What has any of that to do with this?”

            “There are objects of _power_ in the bowels of this cave,” she said, revealing her stained, crooked teeth in a conspiratory grin. “With them you will be strong enough to take back your kingdom, to assume your rightful place as _king_. With the wealth this dragon hoards, you could raise an army to rival those of the Picts and the Romans and the Saxons combined! _Revenge_ , Uther.”

            A lustful sheen entered Uther’s eyes at the word. If he could obtain and harness the power of which the crone spake, he could make Vortigern, the noble who had usurped his brother’s throne, suffer. He could kill him slowly, destroy his followers, and take _his_ sister as the man had taken Caelia. And then he would have the kingdom his father had left to Constans, his eldest brother. The kingdom he had been forced to flee as a child, many years before.

            In a single, fluid movement Uther drew his sword, the blade hissing like a venomous snake. “I will bring you your lamp, crone. The rest of it belongs to me.”

            “Yes,” she said gleefully, following his purposeful strides towards the cave. “Yes, yes! Bring it to me! Have the gold! Kill the dragon! Kill Kilgharrah! _Bring me the lamp!_ ”

            Uther was quickly consumed by the darkness, his footsteps echoing ominously. The crone stood quivering in anticipation, straining her old ears. There was no sound for a long few moments, as if Uther had walked into another world.

She would have to be patient.

            But it was so close now, she could feel it deep within her bones. The sheer power of the lamp, so close. It tingled, marched like ants across her sagging skin, thrummed through her impassioned blood. Her heart fluttered in her heaving breast.

            Finally, the lamp would be hers.

            Finally.

            _Finally!_

            The old woman licked her withered dry lips, which upturned in a smile. The fool would never know what had happened, not until it was too late, at least. She would have the lamp, but it was not the lamp she truly wanted. She wanted what was _inside_ it.

            A horrified scream suddenly rent the air, echoing like a damned soul from Hell. She leapt back in alarm, features twisting in despair when the scream was cut short by a deep, monstrous roar.

            “No!” she wailed, spindly fingers clutching at her tangled white locks.

            A breath of scalding wind preceded an intensifying orange glow from the cave. The ground rumbled, knocking the crone to the ground.

            _Hear me, unworthy witch,_ snarled a demonic voice. She could picture in her mind’s eye the dangerous teeth and claws that accompanied it. _Your warrior has failed. Ye shall not set foot here! What ye wish ye shall_ never _obtain!_

            “I will!” she howled, struggling to regain her footing in the slippery blanket of leaves. “I _will_ have it!”

            As if the very earth were angered at her defiance, the shaking compounded, tossing her like a stringless poppet along the forest floor. The old woman shrieked, desperately digging her long blackened nails into the fertile dirt beneath her. She could only watch in horror as, with a rumbling groan, the cave collapsed before her, shooting up plumes of thick dust.

            “ _Nooo_!”

            The earthquake ceased at once, its causer satisfied that the cave was blocked to her malign presence. The wretched crone, moaning miserably, scrambled forward on her hands and knees. She reached as though to start digging, but then she paused, catching a gleam of starlight out of the corner of her eye. Anticipation constricting her airways, the old creature altered the path of her hands to expose the gem just sprouting from the rubble.

            A gasp of awe and delight escaped her at the sight she uncovered. A tender smile curled her lips as she picked up the oval object, cradling it in her dirty cloak. She could feel a tiny pulse of magic from within it.

            “ _Aithusa_ ,” she whispered hungrily.

            The smooth surface of the egg cracked.


	2. An Honorable Man

Chapter 1

An Honorable Man

            “Halt!” shouted Sir Galahad, shoving a man carrying a squawking chicken aside. “Stop, thief!”

            Sirs Kay and Percival were on the knight’s heels, swords tucked firmly in their sheaths but hands ready to draw them should they be needed. Peasants scrambled out of their path, crying out in alarm. A mother snatched up her toddler only a moment before a tunnel-visioned Kay bowled him over. Squabbling chickens fled, shedding mottled feathers in every direction. A goat was frightened by the sudden commotion, causing him to butt the young boy who led him, which sent him sprawling into a milkmaid, which knocked the milk bucket from her hand and onto the foot of an already hobbling old man. The marketplace was as busy as always, and it was not an unusual sight to see a man chased or a surly goat acting out, so many paid no heed to the event, merely went about their errands and duties.

            The thief did not stop, but threw a glance over his shoulder with wide blue eyes. He turned just in time to agilely dodge a mule-driven cart. His blond hair was matted to his forehead with slick sweat, his arm tucked tightly across his midsection. He looked every which way, searching a hiding place, a quick escape, and found it.

            The open window was far above his head, but the stack of crates—filled with what he didn’t know, nor did he care—below it provided a convenient ladder. He swiftly clambered up and dove in head first, hoping that he hadn’t been seen. He heard no shouts directed at him, so he was content to lie where he was for a moment to catch his breath.

            A quiet giggle caught his attention, and he craned his head back.

            Three young, beautiful women were lounging on a raised bed, smiling at him unshyly. Each of them wore a nightgown, despite it being nearly noon, their skin milky but for the pink flushes on their cheeks. Two of them were blonde and the last a brunette of a chestnut color. And all expressed interest and admiration to him. One corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

            “Well, if it isn’t Arthur,” grinned the brunette, resting her chin on the heel of her hand. “And what brings you here?”

            Arthur sat up and adjusted himself so as to lean his back against the wall, grinning charmingly. “Just passing by, dear Mithian. Hello, Elena, Vivian.”

            “Hello, Arthur,” they replied in unison.

            “Can we interest you in our services?” Vivian asked, invitingly lifting the hem of her gown to show the length of her unblemished thigh.

            Desire filled him at the sight, and he opened his mouth to accept—but they were interrupted by heavy footsteps ascending the creaking wooden stairs. All four of them froze for a moment, but then Elena was clumsily shooting out of bed, ushering him to the cramped wardrobe in the corner that contained all of their dresses and shoes. She shoved him inside, slammed the door on his foot, apologized fervently while he retracted it with an agonized wince, and then firmly closed it. Unable to nurse his wound for lack of moving room, Arthur distracted himself by concentrating on the sound of Elena stumbling back to the shared bed and leaping into it, and the split second later opening of the bedroom door.

            “Wake up, girls,” snapped a voice that belonged more to a toad than to a woman. “Get on with your chores! You’ve got clients tonight, don’t forget.”

            They grumbled tiredly, playing their parts: “As if we’d forget,” and “Can’t chores wait ‘til later?” and “My back is sore!” The floorboards creaked under them as they climbed out of the bed—or perhaps Arthur was mistaken; the girls could have been making those noises as they stretched.

            The heavy footsteps waddled near the wardrobe. Arthur tensed nervously. His discovery would not be taken well.

            “Wait, Mistress!” cried one of the girls, he thought Mithian, but it was too late.

            The door swung open to reveal a middle-aged, squint-eyed woman, back bent from years of hard work as a weaver. The brothel mistress let out a loud peal like a panicked horse, dropping the garments she had been carrying to put away. But her surprise quickly gave way to recognition, and then to anger.

            “You!” she yelled, reaching in and grasping his ear in a vicelike grip. He didn’t bother trying to protest his inhumane treatment, merely staggered after her with a grimace. “I might have known! How dare you, you little street urchin!” Arthur was hardly a _little street urchin_ anymore, but there was no point in telling _her_ that.

            The three girls could only watch in dismay as their not-so-secret crush was dragged out of the room and down the stairs, their owner’s voice raging like a hailstorm of fire and brimstone. Arthur could do nothing as Catherine tossed him out of the door and into the street, where he landed ungracefully on the cobblestones. With a final spit of contempt, Catherine slammed the door shut, nearly catching the same foot Elena had got.

            “Ugh,” Arthur groaned, pushing himself up into a sitting position. The knee of his trousers had been torn from the fall. “Damned _troll_ ,” he muttered, fingering the material. He hadn’t the skills to mend it.

            “There y’are!” A strong hand grasped the back of his brown jacket and hauled him to his feet, the man to whom the hand belonged laughing broadly. “Where’ve ye been, mate?” They sidestepped into the shadowed alley between the brothel and the tavern where they would not easily be seen.

            Arthur brushed himself off as nonchalantly as he could. “Nowhere really, _Gwaine_ ,” he replied. “Only in the vaults getting this.” He reached into his jacket pocket, relieved it was still there, and pulled out a small coin purse. But inside of it he had stuffed a rare, magical object: a glowing blue stone of obvious magical origin.

            Gwaine’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull at the sight of it. “The stone of Cornelius Sigan? Arthur, have ye gone mad?!” The young man opened his mouth to retort, but Gwaine only clapped him on the shoulder with a proud grin. “I knew ye could do it, mate! Look at you, stealing the big money. Ye show promise, Arthur, ye really do.”

            Arthur rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t have had to steal something so very precious if you hadn’t gambled away all of our money!”

            “Eh,” Gwaine chuckled, chocolate eyes still locked hungrily on the brilliant stone, “live a little, will ye?”

            “Whatever. Let’s just go, Gwaine, ere the knights find us.” He pulled the drawstrings closed and tied it off, brow pinched as he contemplated the nearest safe place and time to sell it.

            “A bit too late for that, I think!” Gwaine said, peering around the corner.

            “Damn,” Arthur hissed, quickly stuffing the stone back into his pocket. “What do we do?”

            “Well,” Gwaine scratched thoughtfully at his scruffy beard, “I s’pose we could just be on our merry way and they won’t notice.”

            “Blend into the crowd,” Arthur nodded. “Go.”

            Together they idly stepped out of the alley, taking care not to look back at the knights or to draw attention to themselves. The market was still busy, peddlers selling their wares, women and boys (apprentices sent on various errands by their masters) alike haggling for cheaper prices, a pair of ladies fighting over the last of the silver jewelry, children playing. Normal. Easy.

            It was going quite well, until they rounded the corner.

            “Ah,” Gwaine smiled cordially despite the sudden shock. “Why, innit Sir Percival! Certainly wasn’t expecting to see ye here! How have ye been, Sir? I haven’t seen ya since I was last in the stocks!”

            The towering knight mutely and sternly raised a hand, the universal gesture for ‘halt.’ Gwaine took the hand in his own and kissed it as he would a lady’s. Percival’s brows pinched together, more in confusion than in anger, as Gwaine tipped his head respectfully.

            “It’s been a mighty riveting conversation, dashing Sir, but we must be going now. Ta!” With that, the pair of thieves spun on their heels and sprinted away, expertly weaving through the crowd. They were instantly spotted by Kay and Galahad, who cried out and gave chase, marginally slowed by their mail shirts and billowing red capes. Percival sighed and followed wearisomely.

            “This way!” Arthur said, ducking into a narrow, blind alley between two homes. At the end of it he made a leap for the wall, but found himself just short of reaching it.

            “Good choice, Princess,” Gwaine sarcastically panted, stomping to a halt beside him. Arthur shot him a glare and swiped a hand over his brow to clear it of sweat. His eyes landed on the nearby window. Why there was a window facing the alley he didn’t know, but he was not about to question it. He set to work prying the wooden shutters open, praying that there was no one inside.

            “There they are!” shouted Kay, drawing his sword at the entrance to the alley.

            The thieves were quite adequately cornered. Arthur had not yet been able to open the window, and with the knight advancing swiftly and carefully, there was little chance to continue. But Gwaine, with a spring in his step, moved forward and knelt amongst a pile of rubbish. For a split second, Sir Kay stopped short, brows knitted in wariness and confusion. But an enormous shadow behind him informed him of Sir Percival’s arrival, and so his faltering steps regained their confidence. Gwaine emerged from his hunch on the filthy cobblestones brandishing a weapon of his own.

            “Now we ‘ave ourselves a fight!” cried he triumphantly, twirling the long object in his hand.

            Sir Percival stepped forward, raising a peaceful hand. “Your broom handle will not win against our swords, man,” he said in a neutral tone. “Come peacefully, the both of you. There is no need for—“

            Gwaine, with a savage grin, leapt into the fray without warning, forcing Kay to stumble back into the larger Percival as he desperately tried to defend himself from the splintered weapon. Arthur slammed his elbow into the window, smashing the wood with a loud splintering noise. He threw open the damaged wood, wincing at sharp splinters that prodded at his skin, then squirmed through the opening a little less elegantly than a cat slinking through a fence.

            “Come _on_ , Gwaine!” he shouted once inside. He had landed on a bed—hard, but well-made and sturdy. He flipped the blanket over so that the worse of the splinters were hidden and out of the way, counting himself lucky that he hadn’t gotten stuck. Arthur counted himself doubly lucky upon discovering that there was no one home.

            A boot suddenly appeared from the window, a leather strap wrapped round the toes of it so as to keep the unattached sole closed. Arthur rolled his eyes and grasped the leg, pulling hard. Gwaine came tumbling inside, crashing heavily on top of him with one leg stuck straight in the air. His broom handle caught on the outer edge of the window frame and snapped loudly in two.

            “Get off me!” Arthur grunted indignantly, shoving his friend. Gwaine rolled to his feet just as a red-faced Sir Kay appeared at the window.

            “What’s the matter, Sir?” Gwaine taunted with a large smile. “Shoulders too broad? Well, tha’s a shame, innit?” He tossed the half of the broom handle he still possessed into the air with a flair, then caught it.

            “Gwaine!” Arthur hissed urgently, stumbling for the door. He yanked it open, only to come face-to-face with a waiting Galahad. The knight made to reach for him, sword in hand, but Arthur was too quick: He slammed the door shut again and shoved his shoulder against it to hold it closed. “Hell!” he cursed as Galahad battered it. The young man saw with dismay that a very determined Sir Kay had braved the smallness of the window, and was already halfway through it. He had certainly been smart enough to put his sword arm through first to ward off any attack.

            “Follow me, my friend!” Gwaine said, jumping up onto the rickety table in the center of the room. With the broom handle he poked several holes in the roof, sending thatched hay and rough wooden shingles raining down on him. Unbothered, he reached up and hoisted himself up and out of the house. “Well, Princess?” his muffled voice came floating back.

            Arthur, casting another glance at Sir Kay, who was shouting back at Percival the thieves’ plan, made a mad dash for the table. As soon as he left it, Galahad forcibly burst in, nearly knocking the abused door from its hinges.

            “Hurry!”

            The blond made a flying leap, hand shooting up to grasp that of his friend’s. Arthur’s other hand latched onto the edge of the man-sized hole, and he strained to pull himself up even with Gwaine’s help. A strong grip on his ankle tugged him sharply down.

            He dropped his chin toward his chest and glared at Galahad, who held fast. “You’re not getting away!” the dark-headed knight sneered, baring his teeth intimidatingly.

            Arthur, not one to be cowed, lashed out, violently kicking both legs until a muddy boot made contact with something—Galahad’s nose. With a guttural cry, the knight fell back clutching at the appendage cum blood spout. Gwaine made quick work of pulling Arthur out of danger, just as Sir Kay finally managed to make it through. He ungracefully planted his face on the bed with the suddenness of his descent, the tip of his sword plunging through the straw mattress with a rip.

            “On the roof!”

            “Up there!”

            Arthur and Gwaine chanced a glance down, feet spread wide for balance. Galahad, blood staining his hands, glared up at them. Kay appeared, shot an upwards glance, and then stepped up determinedly onto the table. He was stopped by Sir Percival, who advised him—then ordered him when met with protest—against the reckless action, and led the two of them out of the destroyed house.

            “That’s our cue, then,” Gwaine said cheerfully, giving the receding men a wave.

            He and Arthur carefully picked their way over the slanted roof, using the chimney as a sort of handhold. It was simple enough to go down the other side—they’d be on the opposite side of the wall, leaving the knights to find the nearest corner and circle around. The pair of thieves would be long gone by then.

            They lowered themselves from the roof and sat back against the cool wall to catch their breaths. Arthur took out the Stone to be sure he still had it—all his effort would have been wasted had he lost it during all the excitement. Gwaine grasped the treasure and opened the purse, eyes shimmering critically.

            “Aye,” he said, obviously quite pleased, “we’ll get a fat lot for this!” He kissed the jewel as though it were the brow of a newborn first son.

            Arthur snatched it back and stuffed it into his pocket. “Come,” he grunted as he stood. “We must flee before they find us. They’ll be moving quickly. I don’t much fancy a night in the dungeons.”

            “Understandable, really.”

            They pressed forward, back toward the crowded main street where they might easily lose their pursuers. It was much louder than usual, they could hear as they approached. Soon it became clear that the noise was that of wild cheering and applause.

            “It’s that fellow from Gaul,” Gwaine said, raising his voice and craning his neck to peer over the heads of the throng lining their side of the street. There would be no crossing over until the foreign prince and his entourage passed. Arthur hoped that the knights, even if they did catch up, would not want to make a scene before such a prestigious crowd.

            Just in case, he led Gwaine deeper into the throng.

            They pushed their way to the forefront, where they stopped at the jostling edge of excited citizens.

            The whole affair was rather important. The French Prince Sir Lancelot du Lac had been invited to play suitor to the orphaned Princess Guinevere Leodegrance. It seemed that she would be unable to claim the throne by herself; according to Law, she would have to marry before she would become Queen. Until such time, a Regent, namely the Physician and Bishop Gaius, had been appointed to rule in her stead.

            Of course, not many people had high hopes in this handsome young prince who rode atop a beautiful white stallion. The Princess Guinevere had turned away many suitors before, including King Olaf, Prince Valiant, and even Duke Hoel. Why she had was anyone’s guess—Olaf was one of the most powerful kings in Britain; Valiant was, as his name suggested, the bravest man in all the realms; and Hoel, though old, was kind and generous. Lancelot rode in much more modestly than his counterparts, with only a small company that consisted of two knights who, like Lancelot, were garbed in robes of deep purple, and several servants who were dressed in vivid harlequin patterns of yellows, blues, greens, and reds. His modesty would either count for or against him—many of the crowd were of the opinion that Guinevere would detest him.

            Arthur, however, rather thought he was quite noble, in every sense of the word. As he observed the man pass, he noticed that he, unlike many of higher stature, did not keep his sight straightforward. Rather, he smiled cordially at the crowd, nodding at the old and young alike. He was quite generous with his kindly demeanor. He even pulled his steed short and waited for a mother to chase her child who had run out, and graciously accepted the girl’s wilted flower and her mother’s fervent apologies. Then they proceeded.

            “Now that, Gwaine,” Arthur said, “is an honorable man.”

            Gwaine was too busy fishing around in people’s pockets to hear him.

            Arthur gave him a distasteful glare and shook his head. He certainly didn’t approve of his friend’s antics, but he was grateful. After all, when Arthur had been abandoned by his father at the tender age of seven, the thirteen year old Gwaine had taken him under his wing, shown him how to survive in the harsh streets. Even as adults, they had never gone their separate ways. They were, as they said, thick as thieves.

            “ _Oy, you thief!_ ” snapped a sudden voice. Arthur wheeled around and saw that a man whom Gwaine had probably been pickpocketing had said thief in a tight grip round the wrist.

            Arthur’s attention wasn’t the only one that had been procured by the angry shout. The people surrounding them warily stepped back and began to check their pockets, several alarmed cries coming up when a certain person discovered their missing valuables. Gwaine grinned sheepishly and handed back a few silver coins to his apprehender, but the damage had been done.

            “ _Gwaine_ ,” Arthur moaned at the sight of a pair of knights steadfastly approaching. Different than the ones from earlier, but with all the power of a knight nonetheless.

            “Run,” Gwaine muttered.

            Arthur spun on his heel and dashed into the street, elbowing a man in the face when he attempted to grasp him round his middle. A surprised uproar behind him informed him that Gwaine had gotten away, too, and sure enough he felt a strong hand pushing him up the street towards the Prince’s entourage.

            They sped past on foot, surprising the foreigners. Gwaine slapped the rumps of two mares as he passed, frightening the horses into a rear and causing them to dump their riders. The diversion worked: the knights, mortified, stopped to help control the beasts and help up the bard and knight who had crashed to the cobblestones. Arthur and Gwaine were quick to disappear.

            Lancelot had drawn to a halt, of course, at the commotion, and made sure that his party was uninjured. Assuring the frantic knights that no harm had been done, his brown eyes curiously raised to that place where the thieves, as the knights called them, disappeared. It was a half-boarded up hole, low to the ground of what appeared to be a closed cobbler’s shop. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to call out to the knights as they rounded the corner with a vengeance. Perhaps it was better that the thieves’ hiding place remain undiscovered.

            With a bemused sort of smile, the prince led his knights and servants onwards down the street, making toward the glittering white citadel in the ever shortening distance. There was little more excitement for the rest of the journey, the final stretch from the city gates to the castle itself. It had been a long, hard journey from Paris to the sea, across the channel to the great island, and then another long trek to Camelot. It had been wearisome not only for him, but for his men as well. He hoped to be well-received despite the less than ladylike greetings and farewells of Princess Guinevere’s of which he had frequently heard. He was determined to be a perfect gentleman no matter how horrible she may be to him.

            If only his nerves would settle…

            He had not much longer to dwell on such anxious thoughts, as they finally arrived in the grand courtyard. The whitewashed castle gleamed under the baking sun, a throng of richly-dressed greeters standing at intervals upon the main steps. Lancelot sighed discreetly, wishing to do away with the formalities and enjoy a hot bath after a quick trip to the nearest garderobe to relieve himself—but he was a gentleman. His wants would have to wait.

            As he and his company approached, a herald stepped forth and loudly announced that “The Prince of France Sir Lancelot du Lac son of King Ban of France” and so on and so forth had arrived. At last they had reached an appropriate distance at which to dismount their rides and hand those off to the care of the waiting stable hands, all dressed in their best scarlet tunics. With his entourage in place behind him, Lancelot led them to the palace steps and stopped, as was custom.

            An old man wearing rather plain robes, hoary white hair combed neatly and hands clasped respectfully before him, descended the palace steps alongside a beautiful young woman. This woman had long black ringlets that cascaded down the shoulders and back of her emerald green dress and framed her pale, round face. A shining girdle encrusted with actual emeralds clinched at her middle. Her eyes were an almost startling shade of green—but they were glittering like those of a snake, and the prince had to consciously repress an undue shudder. Lancelot took care not to look for too long at her, but moved his gaze toward the man, who he sensed was the Regent Gaius.

            “Welcome to Camelot, Prince Lancelot,” said he quite amiably, and with a gaze that the young royal felt could see right through him. “I am Gaius, Regent of Camelot. May I present to you the Lady Morgana, Court Sorceress?”

            A spasm of relief swept unbidden through Lancelot as he learned that this cold-looking woman was not Guinevere. He instantly quashed the feeling lest it be construed on his expression, and bowed cordially to her instead. Lips curling into a smile, the lady sorceress curtsied to him.

            “My father sends his warmest regards,” said Lancelot.

            “And I receive and return them,” responded Gaius. “But come, Prince Lancelot, let us not bore ourselves now with formalities. You and your companions must be weary.”

            Before Lancelot could express his gratitude and agreement, Lady Morgana spoke for the first time: “If it pleases you, Sire,” said she, “we will show you to your chambers where you may freshen up and rest. Would you care to dine with us tonight? Or would you prefer to take your meal in your rooms?”

            “I could never turn down a meal with such gracious hosts,” Lancelot answered firmly. “I thank you, _Mademoiselle_ , _Monsieur_.”

            “Very well,” smiled Gaius, clearly pleased but perhaps not surprised. “Our servants shall transfer your belongings to your rooms, Prince Lancelot. If there are any accommodations you find wanting, please do not hesitate to inform any servant. Will you be needing a personal manservant for the duration of your stay?”

            “No, thank you,” said Lancelot. “And, please, _Monsieur_ , call me Lancelot.”

            “Only if you’ll call me Gaius.”

            “Gaius it is.”

            As a group they ascended the smooth stone stairs and into the cool entry hall. Everything was lavishly decorated—tapestries, paintings, mounted weapons, display armor, and stained glass windows were most prominent—and sparkling clean. Servants stood by respectfully, all having stopped in their duties at the sight of the royals so that they could bow or curtsey awkwardly as they were passed. Lancelot did his best to acknowledge them, but it was difficult as most of them tended to avoid looking directly at him. Unsurprising, really.

Uniformed guards, looking proud and polished, were paired at the larger doors, which no doubt led to rooms such as the throne or council chambers. As they reached the west wing of the castle—not too far from the main halls, Lancelot was pleased to see—the guards rather fell away in number so that there were two guards posted at the beginning of each hall, which they regularly patrolled.

The Lady Morgana walked ahead of them, hands clasped before her and chin held regally, skirts sweeping across the floor with a noise like leaves in the wind. Lancelot had matched stride with Gaius, a pace that was not as slow as the Regent’s hunched demeanor would imply. He was, for an old man, rather agile. Trailing behind them at a respectable distance was the rest of Prince Lancelot’s party.

“Here are your rooms,” Morgana said at last, coming to a halt before a row of open doors. There was a suite for each of the French visitors. “I trust you find them to your liking?”

“Certainly,” responded Lancelot. “I thank you for your generosity.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Gaius said. “Now, your things will be brought here for you shortly, your horses cared for at the stables, and refreshments have been provided for you in your chambers. We shall leave you to freshen up, if you will, and a servant will be sent to escort you to the dining hall when it is time to sup.” With a deceptively low bow, Gaius turned to leave.

Morgana, a smile touching her lips, followed. She paused at the prince’s side and turned to him knowingly. “The Princess Guinevere shall be dining with us, Sire. Ah, and perhaps Prince Elyan will join us as well.” She inclined her chin and then continued on.

Lancelot frowned slightly, an expression only noticeable by the minute pinch between his brows. He’d not heard of the Prince Elyan. And for that matter, if there were a prince, then certainly he would be the heir to the throne, not Guinevere. As he had been told, he who won the hand of the princess would rule both her kingdom and inherit his father’s when the time came. Perhaps he had misheard the Lady Sorceress, or perhaps this Elyan was another suitor. But if that were the case, surely he would have been told. And besides, the name Elyan was utterly unfamiliar to him.

He dismissed his escorts, who each entered their own rooms to refresh themselves. Lancelot turned into his own doorway and surveyed the room. The door he left open, as a servant would soon be arriving with his belongings. His first order of business was to the garderobe to relieve himself, then into the main chamber in search of sustenance, which he found awaiting his pleasure on the table. He quenched his thirst with a chalice of mulled wine, and picked the sweetest-looking apple from the cornucopia to hold him over until supper.

In the meanwhile he found his thoughts once more turning to the Princess Guinevere and the sort of person she was. Judging from rumors, she had never once accepted another visitation with a suitor beyond the first meeting, and the goodbyes had been on less than friendly terms. Certainly the princess was fierce and stubborn—not entirely bad qualities, in the prince’s opinion, but ones that might be precursor to worse ones, like a short temper or a tendency to be overindulged. He was glad that she was reputed to be a great beauty, but he sincerely hoped that her personality reflected such appeal.

When the servants bearing both his things and gifts from the Regent and Lords arrived, Lancelot directed that they be placed at one end of the room out of his way—he had a tendency to pace in between bouts of brooding, when such moods overtook him. He thanked them kindly and told them he required nothing more for the time being, and they took their leave of him, one promising to return shortly to escort him to the supper.

Sure enough, once Lancelot had washed up, dressed himself appropriately for the occasion (in a loose black tunic underneath a fine purple jacket which was embroidered with golden thread), and combed his dark locks, the servant returned. “Hello, er—?”

The servant looked momentarily taken aback, but then bowed quite deeply and said, “George, Sire.”

“George,” Lancelot repeated, nodding. “Shall we?”

“Of course, Sire.”

George, a pristine servant of rather feminine stature, promptly turned on his heel and led the way. Lancelot glanced out of the arched windows that lined the hallway. The golden sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky vibrant shades of oranges and pinks. It seemed a good omen to him.

In hardly any time at all, the pair arrived at a pair of great double doors which were inscribed with grand designs and inlaid with gold. The guards, upon seeing their approach, pulled open the door, and George announced the Prince of France Sir Lancelot du Lac’s presence in the dining hall. As George bowed deeply first to the occupants of the room, who had stood from their places at the long oaken table, then to Lancelot, the foreign prince lifted his chin proudly, aiming to please the princess should she be there.

And lo, he saw that she was, indeed.

And she was quite beautiful—dark curls framed her round, soft face and cascaded down her straight back; chocolate eyes set under perfectly arched brows sparkled beneath dark lashes; a polite smile graced her plump lips. The Princess Guinevere was dressed in a purple satin gown that hid her feet, but the barest tip of a plain slipper was visible.

“Welcome, Lancelot,” greeted Gaius, gesturing to the empty chair at his right—the one directly across from the princess. “I trust that you have found your accommodations to your liking?”

“Yes, Gaius,” replied Lancelot, skirting round the table to his place. He noticed a young man in likeness to Guinevere was fidgeting beside him. “I thank you again for your hospitality.”

“Not at all,” Gaius said. “The Lady Morgana is late, it seems, but I am sure that she would not mind if we were to begin without her. This lovely flower is the Princess Guinevere. You’ve both heard all about one another, I’m sure.”

Lancelot plastered on a not-completely-forced smile and turned to her. She curtsied slightly to him, her own polite smile still there. Her eyes, though, were calculating.

“And here, Lancelot, is Prince Elyan.”

Lancelot turned to the young man beside him, who eagerly thrust out his hand. The French prince shook it, glancing over him. He was not tall, but he was handsome, sturdy, and well-muscled. His features were more masculine than Guinevere’s, but there was no doubt that Elyan was her brother. Frantic thoughts raced through Lancelot’s head: here was a young man who should inherit the throne—why was he not the heir? Had he been disowned? Illegitimate? Refused the crown, even?

“Do you like chess?”

Lancelot blinked in surprise. “Chess?” he repeated, looking inquiringly at the enthusiastically nodding Elyan. He shot a quick glance toward Guinevere, who looked even more guarded than ever—and perhaps fierce. _Protective_ , he realized.

Elyan was not a bad man. He was a simple one. Whether he had been born that way or had been in an accident there was no telling, and Lancelot was certainly not rude enough to ask. A small measure of relief washed over him.

“Chess happens to be one of my favorite past times,” Lancelot replied, smiling genuinely. If possible, Elyan beamed more widely than ever.

“Shall we have a game afterwards? Shall we?”

“Elyan,” Guinevere admonished fondly.

Lancelot turned to grin at her; her voice was like the sweet music of bells. “I would love to have a game after we sup,” he said. He turned back to the young prince. “But I shan’t go easy on you!”

“Excellent,” chuckled Gaius. “Then let us eat.”

Having waited for the cue, a line of kitchen workers bearing platters of aromatic foodstuffs appeared from the servant passages from either side of the room. Two small pages followed at their heels, each bearing a silver pitcher of wine fresh from the cellar, if the condensation on the bowls was anything to go by. They retreated once the food was laid out before their masters and guest, bowing deeply. The pages remained respectfully behind them, awaiting the moment that they would move forward to refill the diners’ goblets.

As per etiquette, Lancelot had the first pickings of the meal. He filled the plate before him with a steaming leg of chicken, a small vine of ripe grapes, an assortment of cooked vegetables, and a bit of candied plum. Once he had taken the first bite, the others moved and gathered some food for their own.

Lancelot wasn’t so dense that he didn’t notice the discreet glances Guinevere directed toward him throughout the meal. He engaged himself in conversation with Gaius, who told him a rather riveting rendition of the history of Camelot, occasionally sidetracked by Elyan when he wanted to know something about the prince himself or about his home country, which Lancelot always answered. He answered Elyan’s question about common _jokes_ back home, which the prince had dutifully translated (“A prince, a manservant, and a rowdy drunk enter a tavern…”), much to everyone’s amusement. He couldn’t help but to feel that those observational glances Guinevere took of him were meant to be put together later when she was alone, to judge his character.

So, despite his nervousness, he did not put on a façade. He did not puff out his chest and lift his chin as he did when his father delegated council meetings to him; he did not frown severely as he did when training or sparring; he did not even shoot her his most charming smile as he did when he noticed young ladies and their maidservants looking his way. But nor did he _ignore_ the princess—that was simply ungentlemanly.

The conversation lulled when a messenger came bearing the apologetic news that the Lady Morgana was unable to attend the dinner. Gaius sent him back to her with a message excusing her, and Elyan was voraciously starting on his pudding. Lancelot turned to Guinevere, intent on speaking with her.

“Do you like here, in Camelot?” he asked in all seriousness. It was important to him to consider her needs. After all, if he _were_ to marry her, one of them was going to have to move. Either him to Camelot, which was far less likely, as France was a larger kingdom and he was Ban’s only heir, or she to France. But, if she were to find that she missed Camelot, he would try his best to accommodate her.

“Oh,” she said, cheeks pinking slightly. “Oh, yes. Camelot is very lovely. ‘Tis a shame you could not have come during the spring.”

In fact, Lancelot had arrived on the Isle of Britannica in the spring, but it had taken a couple of weeks to arrive in Camelot. “Perhaps I’ll have the pleasure of seeing it one year,” he said. “Will I have much to look forward to?”

She smiled. “Besides the dappling blossoms of colors all across the land, the hearty festivals and celebrations, and the plentiful food?”

The prince grinned. “That sounds as lovely a spring I’ve ever seen,” said he, “but is Camelot special in that regard?”

“Of course it is!” chimed Elyan. He pointed the knife he was using at his sister. “She lives here.”

Gaius and Lancelot laughed good-naturedly, and an embarrassed Guinevere blushed profusely, lowering her gaze to her own platter. Lancelot found that he wanted to spend more time with her. A rare desire he had when it came to young women.

There was something about Guinevere.

Perhaps it was that she wasn’t too bashful in his presence, or, on the other end of the feminine spectrum, too brash. He thought she just might be intelligent, too. How lucky for him. As for her, he could only hope that he was somehow different than the other nobles she had met.

“Oh, and Lancelot,” Gaius said, as though having just remembered something, “the lords of the castle have organized a hunt for the morrow. If you are interested, the lords send their invitations.”

Lancelot analyzed the invitation quickly: the lords wanted to garner his favor, probably wheedle promises out of him and declare loyalty should the Princess Guinevere choose him. That was to be expected. But all the same, he repressed a deep, put-upon sigh.

“How kind of them,” he said, and it must have been a less than enthusiastic expression on his face because Gaius made an amused noise in his throat, lips twisting wryly. Lancelot forced a pleasant smile on his face. “Will you be in attendance, Elyan?” he asked, turning to him.

Elyan blinked owlishly at him. “At the hunt?”

Lancelot nodded.

“You want me to join you on the hunt?”

“Of course, if you like. I daresay I’d have more fun with you than with the lords,” he said quite candidly. His sincerity must have shown on his face because at once Elyan lit up, Gaius laughed heartily, and Guinevere gave him a queer look.

“Oh,” Elyan turned pleadingly to his sister, “oh, may I, Gwen, please?”

A small smile turned up the corners of her lips, and she nodded her approval.

“I’ll be there, Lancelot, I will!”

“Excellent,” Lancelot responded, giving Guinevere a grateful smile. Her reciprocation, if anything, seemed more grateful than his.

So it was that after the dinner and bidding Gaius a good evening, Lancelot, Elyan, and Guinevere walked together to the simple Prince’s rooms to play chess. Guinevere had promised to witness the spectacular event, something that Lancelot didn’t mind at all. The more time with her, the better, as far as he was concerned.

For a while they sat in concentrated silence. Lancelot and Elyan sat opposite of one another at the table by the window, carefully manipulating their carved and painted pieces across the checkered board. Guinevere was lounging on the plush couch the men had dragged closer for the occasion, brushing her lock dark locks as she watched. She seemed especially interested in observing Lancelot—the furrow in his brow as he tried to counter Elyan’s moves; the way he nibbled his lower lip as he thought; how at ease he seemed out of the presence of public eyes.

When the day’s light began to fade, Guinevere set about lighting the candles in the room so that they could continue their game. To the untrained eye, it would appear that Lancelot was winning: he had more pieces left on the field than Elyan, who was down to his king, queen, a rook, and his two bishops. But the Princess had played enough games with her brother to know that it was all part of his strategy.

“Checkmate!” Elyan said smugly, moving his queen to stand before Lancelot’s king.

“ _Mon Dieu_!” Lancelot exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “You’ve won!” He bent over the board, hand on his chin, determined to find a way out even though he’d just admitted defeat. But he had well and truly lost.

“Do not lament, dear sir,” Guinevere smiled. “This brother of mine is well-versed in the arts of military.”

“Indeed,” Lancelot said, sitting up. He extended his hand across the table to clasp Elyan’s. “Well done, sir.”

“You’re almost as good as Gwen,” Elyan grinned. He set about replacing the chess pieces to their rightful places.

Lancelot laughed as Guinevere blushed. “Then I must practice with utmost diligence so that I might become a worthy opponent of you both.”

Then they bid each other good night so that the young men might rest for their excursion in the morning, and the Princess Guinevere brought Lancelot back to his chambers. “Sleep well, Sir Lancelot,” she said, standing politely just before the threshold. “I shall see you tomorrow?”

“Undoubtedly,” Lancelot replied, smiling. “I look forward to it.”

Returning his smile, Guinevere curtsied and left him. The foreign prince watched her until she was out of sight, and then shut his door and called for his squire to dress him for bed, and informed him of the hunt that was scheduled for the morning. Then, at long last, he retired for the night, a small smile on his face as he imagined what the sun would bring.

He did not know that he would never look upon the Princess Guinevere again.


	3. Little Orphans

Chapter 2

Little Orphans

Guinevere had spent most of her morning sitting at the opened window in her favorite chair, her embroidery in her lap. Her maidservant, Sefa, had come to wake her and dressed her in her favorite lavender gown with the plain trim, and had braided her long curls, and had manicured her nails. The princess hadn’t particularly meant to dress so finely for Lancelot, when surely he would be wearing something much more comfortable, but at the same time she was sorely attracted to him and wanted to leave him with her best impression at all times.

She knew that the noblemen wouldn’t return before midday, but Guinevere was unable to prevent her eyes from eagerly sidling toward the courtyard below, hoping to catch a glimpse of his tall, handsome figure riding past. But he’d left at dawn, and she hadn’t risen from her bed until the sun had playfully greeted her, peeking in through her windows and then ducking behind cottony clouds.

At the sudden knock on the door, Guinevere started and hurriedly picked up her sewing. It wouldn’t do for a princess to be caught idling.

“Enter,” she called, pushing the fishbone needle through the vibrant cloth.

Guinevere glanced up as the door swung open, and she leapt to her feet in concern as she saw the Lady Morgana stumble into her chambers, one hand pressed over her clammy brow. The princess dropped her sewing and hurried over to the sorceress. She grasped her elbow to support her, and quickly led her to the nearest chair by the empty hearth.

“Have you had a vision?” Guinevere asked, voice hushed.

Morgana was slumped in the seat, leaning heavily on the leather armrest. Her primly manicured hand had slipped downwards, obscuring her eyes. She answered feebly, “Yes.”

“Shall I fetch Gaius?”

As Guinevere asked, she turned toward the still open door, intending to set forth on her suggested mission, but cold fingers wrapped around her wrist, stopping her. The princess knelt at Morgana’s side, obeying her wishes, and waited expectantly. Whatever Morgana had seen was, at the moment at least, for Guinevere’s ears only.

“I am sorry,” Morgana breathed, her chest straining within the confines of her tight dress. “I am sorry, my dear Gwen.”

Guinevere’s heart leapt into her suddenly constricted throat. She swallowed thickly and wet her lips anxiously. “What did you see?”

At last, the Court Sorceress lowered her hands and made eye contact. Her usually steely eyes had melted with sorrow. “It is Prince Lancelot.”

“Yes?” she whispered, clasping her shaking hands together.

Morgana took Guinevere’s hands in her own. “He and Elyan went with the hunting party early this morning. It was going so well—they laughed, and rode through the forest at the heels of the hounds, occasionally letting fly an arrow at a hart—but then…”

“But then?” Guinevere gasped. All sorts of horrifying scenarios flashed through her mind: a wild boar attacking; a stray arrow; a falling tree; bandits.

“Prince Lancelot was leading the party. A snake crossed the path of his horse, startling it into a rear. The prince, he was knocked from the saddle. He fell.”

“But he’s all right?” Guinevere asked fervently. “He’s hurt, but he’ll be all right. We’ll send the physician straightaway. I’ll go and fetch him!” She moved to get to her feet, but once again Morgana was tugging her back.

“Oh, my dear Gwen,” she repeated woefully. “Lancelot is dead.”

“No!”

“They are returning as we speak. I am sorry. So very sorry, Gwen.”

Hearing a sudden commotion from the courtyard, Guinevere tore herself from Morgana’s grasp and staggered to her window, bracing herself on the wooden sill.

The hunting party had returned. There was no victorious singing, no prancing about displaying their kills, or even the usual brays of the hounds. Rather than bearing a hart between them, there was a shrouded figure carried on a makeshift litter. The party was solemn, heads bowed. Commoners and nobility alike were rushing about the courtyard, talking in hushed alarm and fetching things and spreading the news.

With a short cry, Guinevere’s legs crumpled beneath her, and the world spun wildly.

This time Morgana came and supported her onto her chair, using magic to turn it away from the window. The princess was spared any more of the horrible scene.

Tears poured forth relentlessly, though she made no sound. “What of—what of my brother?” she hiccoughed, graciously accepting the silken green handkerchief Morgana handed to her.

“Shall I fetch him here?” Morgana asked, stroking Guinevere’s arm soothingly. When she nodded, Morgana stood and crossed the room briskly, apparently recovered from her vision-induced migraine.

The Princess pressed her face into the handkerchief, wetting it. Her shoulders shook, but she did not sob with abandon. Even in grief she carried herself with dignity.

Only a few minutes later—Guinevere could only assume that Elyan had already set off to her room at a run the moment he had arrived at the palace—the doors burst open, and he flung himself at his sister’s feet. A breathless Morgana reappeared shortly after him, her skirts lifted a good few inches so that she could jog.

“Oh, Gwen!” Elyan cried, cheeks stained with tears. “Oh, Gwen! Oh, Gwen!”

Guinevere drew him into her arms comfortingly, but did not trust herself to say anything. She nodded at Morgana, granting her leave, and the sorceress exited with a final pitying look. The heavy door clicked shut almost inaudibly.

“I’m sorry, Gwen, I’m sorry!”

“It’s not your fault, Elyan, my dear,” Guinevere said, stroking his back soothingly. She had to pull herself together for her brother. She would have to mourn on her own later. Elyan came first, always.

It was a candle mark before Elyan’s tears and hiccoughing ceased, leaving him puffy-faced and exhausted. After a good amount of coaxing him up, Gwen led him back to his chambers just across the hall from hers (largely due to the siblings’ insistence that they stay close together) and helped him out of his shoes and jerkin. Then she tucked him into bed so that he could sleep comfortably.

For a moment she stood over him, watching as his tear-stained face slowly relaxed. When she was sure that he would not wake, the princess returned to her own rooms and went to her wardrobe. A walk in the lower town always calmed her whenever she was upset, and it had done immense help to her heart after the death of her father, so she hoped that such would be the case. She selected the plainest hooded cloak she owned, a gray one with a braided tie, and donned it.

The princess poked her head out of her door and called for a guard. Her summons were answered immediately, and she kindly informed him that she would be napping, and requested that no one wake her or her brother. Then she crossed her rooms, covering her dark curls with the hood, and slipped out the servant’s entrance.

{Birthright}

The marketplace, as usual, was bustling. Merchants and peddlers, women and children, servants and pages, and milkmaids and kitchen maids and scullery maids alike all crammed into the streets, haggling with wares sellers and commissioners and squabbling with one another over limited stocks. Farmers led their wagons, calling for other pedestrians to make way lest they be trampled by their mules or nags. As the disguised Princess Guinevere merged deeper into the foray, the clamor rose and the stifling heat and odor of numerous bodies pressed into her, and her tumultuous thoughts were smothered.

It was a relief to be out of the heavy silence of the castle.

Most times, whenever she chanced to slip out of the palace undetected for a bit of fresh air, some time to think, she walked to the gates of the city and turned back. But this time Guinevere doubted whether that would be enough. All the same, her absence was sure to be noticed sooner than later, so it was best that she return before evening.

She was jolted out of her reverie when her shoulder collided with a solid figure passing the other direction. “Oh!” she cried, momentarily off balance. “I am sorry, sir,” she said, reaching out to him but not touching. “I was not paying attention.”

The roguish-looking man merely grinned amiably and released her arm once he was sure that she was not going to fall. “No harm done, m’lady.”

Guinevere offered him a polite smile and turned to continue on her way, but she was stopped short when he grasped her hand in his own rough one.

“Please excuse me, m’lady,” he said, “but ye seem incredibly familiar. Do I know ye?”

“I—I don’t believe so,” she uttered. The princess resisted the urge to pull her hood lower over her face, for that would only heighten suspicion.

But the man’s eyes only twinkled merrily, and she saw no spark of recognition—he was making a valiant attempt at wooing her. “Ye be very beautiful, madam. Yer name must be Esmeralda.”

Guinevere couldn’t help the small smile that flitted across her lips. “I am sorry, you are mistaken, good sir. I must be going.”

He shrugged, unoffended by her rejection, and let her go. But after only a few steps, he caught up to her and walked at her side. “Ye seem like ye need a bit o’ cheering up, madam. Perhaps I can be of assistance. My name is Gwaine.”

For a moment Guinevere marveled at his perceptiveness. She was so schooled in propriety that her expression felt as though it were transfixed in a pleasant countenance—perhaps the eyes were the windows to the soul, if it were possible for them to be read. But it was too dangerous for her to make friends. “A pleasure, Gwaine,” she said. “But I am fine, thank you.”

Just then, another young man careened around the corner and linked his arm into Gwaine’s, tugging him away. “Stop bothering the ladies!” he hissed. “Have you been drinking again?” Cutting off Gwaine’s response before he could iterate it, the blond turned to Guinevere, handsome face smoothing out. “I apologize on my friend’s behalf, my lady,” he said cordially. “He’s not right in the head, you must forgive him. He shan’t be bothering you for any longer.”

At that, Gwaine snatched his arm back. “I’ve not been bothering her!” he exclaimed. “And o’ course I’ve been drinking, Arthur. Now, join me in song so that our brotherhood will remain intact. _Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh—_ “

With a roll of his eyes, Arthur stuffed a piece of bread into Gwaine’s mouth, effectively silencing him. “Again, I really apologize,” Arthur said to Guinevere, who, for all that moment, had only been able to stare at him speechlessly.

But then a ghastly wash of shame overcame her, and she ducked her head. Less than two candle marks after learning of the death of such a kind man as Lancelot, whom she was surely to wed should he have asked for her hand, and here the princess was lusting after another!

Arthur looked down at her with slight concern, for she had not replied to him. A familiar glint of metal over her shoulder caught his eye, and he glanced up with a start. “Gwaine!” he hissed, ducking slightly. “Knights.”

Gwaine shot a look over his shoulder, and sure enough, a couple of guards were pushing their way through the crowd. They had yet to be spotted, but if they were to stay where they were, being noticed was certain. Hearing Arthur’s hushed warning and seeing his cautious demeanor, Guinevere turned as well. She recognized them as the knights assigned to guard the corridor that housed her and her brother’s rooms.

So her absence had been noticed, and far too soon at that.

Heart fluttering in her chest like a panicked bird, Guinevere pinched her lips together and pulled the hood down further, intending to blend into the crowd, circle back unnoticed, and return to the castle undetected. She would come up with a reason for her apparent disappearance on the way.

The princess’s evasive movements had not gone oversighted by the thieves.

Immediately assuming that she was the object of their search, Arthur and Gwaine quickly ushered her away. Guinevere, taken so by surprise that she could not find it in herself to protest, was swept out of sight and down a nearby alley.

There was no sound of a chase behind them, so they had not been spotted. Despite this, the men hurried along, Gwaine leading the way and Arthur following up behind so as to trap her in a misguided attempt to protect her. She realized that they were nearing the citadel, which surprised her. She had expected them to move _away_ from it. Those who ran from guards did not run to a place where more guards were.

But then they came to an abandoned cobbler’s shop, boarded up. She supposed someday the charred remains would be rebuilt, but as the rickety structure stood it looked uninhabitable. Gwaine knelt down and swiftly shuffled into a dark, dusty hole near the ground.

Arthur nudged Guinevere toward it, standing idly by as to keep an eye out for danger. The princess hesitated unsurely, but then Gwaine popped his head back out.

“Come on, then! It’s perfectly safe, m’lady.”

Seeing that it was a hard situation, Guinevere decided that it would be best to go along with it until such time that she could reason with these men to let her go. Because she was smaller than her helpers, the princess crouched down on all fours and crawled through the opening, and allowed Gwaine to help her to her feet. Arthur shimmied in shortly after, and took a moment to brush the dust from his breeches.

Guinevere peered around at the dark room. It appeared thoroughly unused—the bench and table layered with thick dust (or perhaps it was ash), as well as the barren mantelpiece and the floor. The wooden walls and floor surrounding the fireplace were charred, bespeaking the reason the place was no longer lived in.

Gwaine leaned against the wall, flicking his hair back from his face. The wood creaked ominously, and the princess tensed fearfully as a few pieces of the ceiling fell. Nothing more happened.

_Perfectly safe, indeed,_ she thought ruefully.

“This way,” Arthur said, taking the lead. “Don’t worry, miss. We’ll not be staying here, but we’ve got a hideaway farther along.”

“Oh, I see,” Guinevere said. No getaway plan was forthcoming. Soon enough, she’d have to reveal herself and command them to lead her back to the street so that she could return to the castle.

First the death of Prince Lancelot, now an accidental kidnapping of the Princess. What next?

The trio crossed to the back of the room, where a rickety wooden ladder led down into the cellar. But, as they reached the bottom, Guinevere realized that it was not a cellar at all, but a very dark tunnel.

A tunnel beneath her city? The only ones of which _she_ knew were the catacombs and the siege tunnels that would allow escape should the citadel come under attack. Those were carved through stone, rather than the dirt as this one was.

The tunnel winded and twisted, and grew darker the farther they went, but the men seemed to know precisely where they were going, and the way was smooth and clear. Soon enough, the dirt turned to chilly stone, and Guinevere guessed that they were now in the catacombs beneath the city. But it was beginning to grow light again, and Arthur grabbed a burning torch as they reached it.

“Nearly there,” he said, taking a series of turns that left Guinevere thoroughly flabbergasted.

Because she saw no bones, it was decided that they were not, in fact, in the catacombs. There were few places these tunnels could be, then, and she half-wondered whether they were unmarked on any of the maps she had seen in her father’s study all those years ago.

Finally, they came to a round chamber.

The room was rather cozy, with faded red and moth-eaten tapestries hanging over the other entrances to ward off the chill, and several pieces of mismatched furniture distributed throughout the room, and piles of blankets and stuffed pillows upon dusty rugs, as well as stoppered bottles and barrels presumably filled with drink, and several piles of sacks throughout the room, either of food or for makeshift bedding. All of this was revealed to her as Arthur circled the room, lighting the torches in their brackets.

But she was quite startled when he passed the far end of the room, and the light revealed a large blanket thrown carelessly over a lumpy pile—but her gaze was sharp enough to catch a glint of gold where the blanket did not cover the loot sufficiently.

These men were thieves.

“We’ll be safe here,” Arthur said, putting the torch in a bracket and dusting his hands off. “They’ll move on from that area soon, and then we can move about again.”

Guinevere swallowed hard, desperately trying to think of a way out of this mess. They certainly didn’t seem to recognize her, so she supposed they weren’t going to hold her for ransom. She had to be extra careful to not reveal her identity.

“Please,” Gwaine said politely, gesturing to the room, “make yerself comfortable, madam. ‘Tis not much, but ‘tis home.”

The princess gave him a strained smile and took the nearest seat, a rickety wooden one with a back cushion. She sat ramrod straight, hands folded tightly in her lap.

Gwaine and Arthur exchanged a look.

“I know it’s not ideal,” Arthur said apologetically. “But those guards were after you, were they not? We don’t know what it is you’ve done, if you have done something, but I’m sure they’ll forget about it soon enough.”

He turned and rummaged about for a moment, then found what he was looking for: a chalice. This he filled from a nearby bottle and brought it to her. “Honeyed water,” he offered. “I’m afraid it’s all we’ve got at the moment.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking it. But she did not drink, even though she was thirsty and honeyed water was one of her favorite flavors.

“My name is Arthur,” he said. “This is Gwaine.”

“A pleasure.”

He waited a moment for her to continue, but she was not forthcoming. “Shall we continue to call you ‘madam’?”

“My name is…Gwen.”

“Gwen it is.”

“I…” She swallowed. “I must go soon. I have to get back to my brother. He’s…very ill.”

“What’s he got?” Gwaine asked.

“Gwaine,” Arthur chastised.

“Oh, uh,” Guinevere stammered.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Arthur assured her, shooting his friend a dirty look.

“I only ask ‘cause we’ve got some medicines right ‘ere,” Gwaine shrugged. He flipped open a wooden box and rummaged through clinking vials. “Let’s see…fever tonics, cough tonics, some sort o’ paste for bruises or summat…”

“He’s not…Nothing like that,” she said, embarrassed. The situation was so horribly flustering that she could hardly keep the conversation straight, and worried that the thieves would discover her and not let her go.

The men did not pursue the subject, for which she was grateful.

Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. “Are you…erm, are you hungry, Gwen?”

“No, thank you.”

“All right.”

Silence descended upon the group once more.

Until Gwaine broke it with an abrupt question: “Yer a thief, ain’t ye?”

Guinevere jumped in surprise, her honeyed water clattering to the floor. “Oh!” she gasped, quickly stooping and picking up the chalice, but it was too late—the water had soaked into the rug. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sirs!”

“Don’t worry about it!” Arthur interjected quickly. He grabbed the nearest spare blanket and threw it over the stain to protect the hem of her dress from wetting. “No, I apologize. Please, don’t hold it against Gwaine, he’s just a fool. I’ll—I shall—“

“We’re thieves, too, not to worry,” Gwaine said nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair. But his gaze was intense, studious. “We understand.”

“I’m not,” the princess gasped, flustered and appalled at the thought, “I don’t—I would never!”

“Gwaine,” Arthur growled threateningly.

“A mighty fine pair o’ shoes ye’ve got, Gwen,” Gwaine drawled.

Arthur and Guinevere both looked down. When she’d dressed to sneak out of the castle, she hadn’t thought to change her slippers. The smooth, decorated leather was clearly visible as the hem of her dress lifted when she sat. Her mouth went dry.

“I…They were a…gift,” she blurted unconvincingly. It was the truth, at least.

Neither of them looked convinced, but they did not press the issue. Gwen fretted over the shoes, wondering whether she should lie and say that she stole them from her mistress and hope they believed her then, or else stay quiet about it and let them come to their own conclusions. Oh, but what if they inferred of her royal status while she was silent? What did common women do? Talk? Or stay silent?

It was Arthur who broke the uncomfortable silence. “We steal for a good cause, you know. We’re not bad, Gwen.”

“A good cause?” she repeated, eyes flicking toward their horde.

The blond nodded.

Gwaine leapt to his feet, drawing a dagger—a movement that nearly made the poor princess faint. But he only held it aloft and gallantly cried, “We steal from the rich and give to the poor!”

“Well,” Arthur said more modestly, “most of it goes toward funding the orphanage and helping poor families care for their children. That way the children don’t have to be sent away to work and send back the money they earn.”

“Oh,” was all that Gwen could say. The thieves seemed to be in earnest, and if what they said was true, then Gwen had no reason to fear them nor even report them. She had heard of the orphanage; it had cropped up mysteriously some years before, and catered not only to true orphans but to young men and women who had no place to live or work, and also housed the elderly whose family could not afford to feed them. For some time she had suspected Gaius of supplying the funds, but he removed those suspicions soon enough when he caught her looking at him queerly and guessed at what she was thinking, and told her that all of his funds went to the Church as they should, though he approved of the mysterious patron of the orphan house.

Then she found her voice again and said, “Well, that’s very good of you both. Wonderful, really. Very kindly of you.”

Arthur seemed to blush slightly under the praise, but Gwaine only grinned roguishly.

“Anything to stick the rich in the pants!”

“Gwaine, please,” Arthur said when he made a rude gesture toward an invisible lord that caused Guinevere’s cheeks to darken.

The man shrugged. “Serves them right, anyway, for being so fickle. A man dies fighting their way, and his family is left to rot. I say let the plague take them!”

Arthur gave Gwen an apologetic look as Gwaine started off on a rant about the nobility. He whispered to her, “His father was a knight. Died in the last war. His family’s fortune was taken away, leaving them destitute. His mother and sister passed from the plague fourteen years ago.”

“Oh, the poor dear,” Guinevere said, feeling genuinely sorry for him. It was no wonder he was so embittered.

“I wouldn’t feel _too_ badly for him, my lady,” Arthur chuckled. “He’s a right drunkard who loves a good fight. It’s a miracle I didn’t turn out like him, the way he raised me.”

The princess started. “Oh! Is he your father? I’m sorry, you two don’t look—“

“No!” Arthur laughed. “No, no. My father abandoned me when I was a child. Gwaine took me under his wing so I didn’t starve. We’re only a few years apart in age.”

“I see,” she said. “Then you are both orphans. I am sorry for it.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” Arthur said.

Gwaine’s voice pitched suddenly, “And _worst_ of it all, the damned—“

“You won’t have to sit through this for much longer,” the blond promised. “We’ll get you back home soon.”

“That’s all right. I suppose I can understand it. My mother and father have passed away, too.”

“I see. That’s too bad,” Arthur said softly. “I am sorry for it.” He bowed his head and fingered at the tear in his trousers. They lapsed into silence, listening to Gwaine’s rant until he tapered off and sank down into a plush chair. His head lolled to one side as he checked the nearby candle.

“It’s not even been one candle mark,” he exclaimed in surprise. “Ah well, tha’s long enough tha’ our friends have gone, eh?” He pushed himself up again and went over to the stock of gold, scooping out a handful and depositing it into a sizeable purse. This he tossed at Arthur, who easily snatched it out of the air one-handedly and proffered to Guinevere.

“For you, my lady.”

“Oh!” she gasped. “Why, no, I couldn’t!”

“Please, take it,” Arthur said kindly. “It’s the least we can do, after practically kidnapping you.”

“Oh, no…”

But Arthur did not back down until she took the purse and fastened it onto her girdle with the drawstring.

“Right, then. Shall I—ahem—shall I lead the way?” Arthur asked awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Oh, if you don’t mind,” Guinevere responded.

“Oh,” Gwaine drawled, “I’m sure he doesn’t.”

The tips of Arthur’s ears turned red, but he said nothing. Instead, he grabbed the nearest torch and marched doff. Gwen delivered a small curtsey to the rogue and hurried after her guide, guiltily feeling the coin purse bouncing at her hip. She laid a hand over it to silence the jingling. A moment later, though, Gwaine caught up with them.

“I can’t let a beautiful lady just walk off without a proper goodbye, can I?” he said by way of explanation, winking.

Once again the princess followed her wayward helpers through the tunnel, marveling that they knew the correct turns despite so many branches leading off in different directions. If her eyesight had been more suited to the darkness, she might have noticed the small arrows scratched into the walls, faint and chalky white.

In a shorter time, it seemed, than the first trip, they reached the ladder. Gwaine squeezed past them both and went up first, poking his head out like a gopher and looking about for danger before exiting fully. He waved the other two up, and Arthur gestured that Guinevere should go. She did, holding her skirts a bit tighter around her thighs in case the thief got any ideas; however, Arthur was a perfect gentleman and only glanced upwards a few times to make sure she was not having any trouble. She ascended with little difficulty, and accepted Gwaine’s helping hand once she reached the summit. Arthur was with them a moment later, sticking the torch in a barrel of stagnant water to douse the flame.

            Gwaine crouched and moved to the wall so that he could look inconspicuously out of the window—or what was left of it. Whatever movements he saw did not appear to alarm him, and he shimmied out of the hole.

            “Shall we?” Arthur said.

            Guinevere adjusted her hood to hide her face, then crawled out on her hands and knees. She was slightly surprised when Gwaine did not offer to help her up, but she was far from a damsel in distress and pushed herself to her feet. She heard Arthur shimmying behind her, but froze nevertheless.

            Two knights, armor shining in the sunlight, had Gwaine at sword point. He grinned lazily at them. Arthur looked at first speechless, then crestfallen. He gave Gwen an apologetic glance, and she shifted nervously, unsure what to do.

            Finally, one of the guards spoke. “We arrest you under the authority of Regent Bishop of Camelot. Come quietly.”

            “What?” Gwaine said with mock offence. “We’ll not have a serenade?”

            As the knights roughly grabbed the thieves’ arms, Arthur turned to Gwen and mouthed, “Go.”

            A sudden bravado overcame her suddenly, and she drew herself to her full height. “Halt!” she commanded.

            The men were taken so by surprise that they did just that, looking at her.

            Princess Guinevere lowered the hood of her cloak and glared with steely eyes at the knights. “Release them, Sirs.”

            “Your highness!” they exclaimed. But they did not obey. Gwaine and Arthur exchanged alarmed looks, both nearly bent double from having their arms twisted behind their backs.

            “Well?” she arched a lithe eyebrow. It was the same expression she made when Elyan was being stubborn.

            “Our deepest apologies, your highness. We are under direct orders form the Lady Morgana to bring them in.”

“They are thieves, madam,” said the other lamely.

            “I know that!” Guinevere retorted. “Do the orders of a lady carry more weight than the orders of a princess?”

            The knights shuffled uncomfortably. “We dare not disobey the Court Sorceress, your highness.”

            “Court Sorceress?!” Gwaine’s eyes bugged out of his skull. “Bloody hell! What use has she o’ us?”

            Guinevere drew herself up again, ignoring Gwaine’s inappropriate outburst. “Fine, then. We shall bring them to the palace, and I shall order the Lady Morgana to grant them a pardon.”

            The knights bowed respectfully, unwittingly loosening their holds on the thieves.

            “Now!” Gwaine hissed.

            He twisted free, lashing out with his foot to catch his captor in the knee, then made a break for it. Arthur tried to do the same, but the knights too quickly recovered and tackled him. Gwaine stopped at Arthur’s pained grunt and Gwen’s cry of alarm, turning back.

            “Gwaine!” Arthur yelled, struggling. “Run!”

            The rogue hesitated only a moment. He turned and fled. Arthur was roughly hauled to his feet, his angry growl punctuated by Guinevere’s cry of “Be careful!” The blond glared at the cobblestones, spitting a mouthful of blood from his bitten tongue.

            Guinevere resisted the urge to shed frustrated tears. The men weren’t helping themselves by trying to escape, and there was only so much she would be able to do to help them.

            “Let us go,” she said stiffly.

            They began to march off, wending their ways through the streets toward the palace. She suddenly wondered whether Elyan had woken and alerted the guards that she was gone. She could not begrudge him for it, of course, but there were days when she wished he weren’t…well, there was nothing that could be done about it. Even Lady Morgana had been unable to cure his simpleness.

            But now was not the time to think on it. Guinevere chanced a glance back at Arthur, who was trapped in the tight grasps of the knights. He was still scowling at the ground.

            The journey was made in terse silence. The princess spent it contemplating how she was going to convince Morgana to let Arthur free. The Court Sorceress could be quite stubborn at the best of times, and she was still fuming about the loss of the Stone of Cornelius Sigan from the vaults. Perhaps Guinevere could barter for leniency: if Arthur and Gwaine were to return the Stone, they could purchase pardons.

            Yes, it was decided.

            Once they reached the courtyard, she picked up her pace, forcing the knights and prisoner to keep up. The sun was reaching its pinnacle, dazzling the whitewashed stones of the palace, whose glorious turrets reached for the heavens. The air was stiflingly still, rent by the low buzz of the market not far off. A lump formed in Guinevere’s throat as she saw the funeral pyre being constructed beneath the late king’s balcony, a place of honor. And then the doors at the top of the steps were flung open, as though their presence had been awaited. Out came the Lady Morgana, followed by Gaius and Elyan.

            “Gwen!” the Court Sorceress cried. “Thank the gods you’ve been found!” She embraced the princess tightly, preventing her from saying anything. Her eyes turned to venom as they landed on Arthur, who had yet to look up. “Take him to the dungeons immediately.”

            “Yes, your ladyship,” responded the knights at once.

            Before Guinevere could tear herself free and reverse the order, they were gone. “Oh, Morgana!” she uttered, voice laced with disappointment.

            Elyan interrupted, flinging himself past Morgana into his sister’s arms. “Gwen! Gwen! I thought you were gone forever!”

            “No, of course not,” she responded, still locking gazes with Morgana. She tried to silently convey that Arthur should be set free, but to no avail; Morgana could not read minds. “I’d never leave you, Elyan.”

            “Guinevere, my girl,” Gaius said. He appeared troubled, his eyebrow arching at a dangerous level. “Where on earth have you been? Guards have searched all over the city for you.”

            “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I only lost track of time. See, I had gone for a walk.”

            “And found yourself in the company of thieves?” Morgana finished, frowning with displeasure. Then another expression crossed her face, one which the princess couldn’t read. “My lady, were you abducted that man?”

            “Goodness!” Gaius exclaimed, alarmed at the idea.

            Elyan at last allowed her to extricate herself from his arms. She cried, “No! That is not what happened.”

            “Perhaps it is unwise to bring this up in the open,” Gaius said, lowering his voice as a trio of handmaidens passed with laundry baskets balanced on their hips. “Shall we go inside?”

            “Of course,” the Lady Morgana conceded. “You are right, Gaius.”

            The nobles ascended the steps together, Elyan and Morgana supporting either of Guinevere’s arms as though they expected her to faint from the shock of her ordeal.

            “Perhaps you should rest first, my dear,” Gaius said sympathetically. “This can’t have been an easy morning for you.”

            “Yes,” Morgana agreed. “And Gaius was in the midst of addressing a letter to King Ban of France, Lancelot’s father. Of course we shall have to send Lancelot’s things back with his entourage. Such a shame his body cannot last the journey so he may have a proper funeral.”

            Guinevere blinked back stinging tears. Now was not the time to cry for a man who had been practically a stranger to her. Arthur was alive, and in need. “No,” she choked out. “I am quite all right.”

            “Nonsense,” Morgana crooned.

            “You’re crying,” Elyan pointed out, patting her shoulder awkwardly. Though he could gracefully receive comfort, he was less adept at giving it.

            In the end, the princess had little say in the matter. She was led directly to her chambers and deposited into bed after having her slippers and cloak removed. Gaius drew the curtains closed as Morgana put away the cloak in the wardrobe, and Elyan tucked her in.

            “We shall speak on the matter when you wake, dear Guinevere,” Morgana said, patting her curly head.

            “All right,” Gwen agreed grudgingly. Despite her protests, she was really was quite exhausted and emotionally drained; her eyes slipped closed, and in moments she was asleep, and the others exited the room, whispering amongst themselves.

{Birthright}

            Guinevere knocked on the heavy oak door and listened.

            “Enter,” came the muffled command.

            She did so, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. When she did not immediately speak, Gaius looked up from his parchment.

            “Ah,” he said, setting his quill aside. “Guinevere, my girl. How was your rest?”

            “It was well,” she replied.

            He beckoned to her. The princess crossed the room and sat in the chair on the opposite of his writing desk and leaned forward earnestly. Her tension affected the elderly man, whose eyebrow rose up.

            “Gaius,” Guinevere began, wringing her hands in her lap. “Gaius, we must free Arthur.”

            “Who?”

            “Arthur, the man in the dungeon. He did not kidnap me. He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

            A wry smile touched Gaius’s lips. “I’ll make certain that he is not charged for a crime he did not commit. But he is a thief.”

            Guinevere lowered her head, slightly chagrined. “He steals for good cause.”

            “And what cause is this?”

            “Arthur funds the orphanage.”

            Gaius sat back, surprised at the revelation. “A good cause, indeed,” he answered carefully. “Unfortunately, I have to act within the sacraments of the law. I cannot pardon a thief, regardless of his intentions. It would appear arbitrary to the court, and besides that, all those who were condemned for stealing to feed their families would have been guiltless.”

            Her shoulders sank. “Then…Then perhaps lighten the burden of his punishment?”

            Most thieves were subjected to the cruelty of thumbscrews—horrid devices that rent flesh and crushed bone, mangling and crippling the hands that had taken that which did not belong to them.

            Gaius exhaled through his nose, apparently thinking hard. “I will do what I can,” the Bishop promised at last.

            Guinevere offered a tentative smile. “Thank you, Gaius.”

            “You are very welcome, Guinevere. If that is all, then, I must return to my work.”

            “Of course.” The princess stood and prepared to leave, but turned back just as suddenly. “Gaius? Is Lancelot’s funeral nearly prepared?”

            “It will begin tomorrow at dawn. If you like, the prince is in the throne room. I have administered his last rites this morning. I believe he is saved, and will hear your prayers.”

            “Thank you, Gaius.”

            Then she swept out of the Regent’s chambers, head held high. She would pray over Lancelot before visiting Arthur in his prison.


	4. The Cave of Kilgharrah

Chapter 3

The Cave of Kilgharrah

            It was incredibly cold.

            Only a few hours before Arthur had been sweating in the sunlight, but now that he was chained up like a common criminal beneath the courtyard, with only a small, barred window at the top of his damp cell, he could not stop shivering. His fetters rattled and clashed harshly against the stones above his head, sounds that grated against his ears and seemed too loud in the dark expanse of the dungeons. Arthur clenched his jaw to silence his chattering teeth, but it did little good.

            He half wished Gwaine hadn’t gotten away, if only so he wouldn’t feel so abandoned. It was too much like being a child again, waiting for his father to return with something to eat. Hunger gnawed him then as it did now.

            The thief stretched his stiff legs out in front of him. There was a patch of orange light on the floor. He ached to feel the warmth of it, but it remained just out of reach, and moved farther away with each passing hour as they sun began to lower itself on the horizon.

            A shadow crossed it. Some passerby in the courtyard, perhaps. For a long while Arthur had tried to catch such people’s attention by screaming himself hoarse, but if they did hear him (and certainly they did, there was nothing to prevent it), they ignored him. Who, after all, would listen to a criminal?

            “ _Psst!_ ”

            Arthur opened his eyes, not having realized he had closed them in the first place, and saw that the shadow was still there.

            “ _Psst!_ Arthur, mate, is tha’ ye?”

            “Gwaine?”

            The blond could hardly believe it, but squinting he could just make out his friend’s features, framed by those long locks, through the shadow.

            “Hold on, mate, I’ll have ye out in no time!”

            And Gwaine went to work digging the iron bars out of the mortar that held them in place, noisily chipping it away with a sharp blade. Arthur glanced nervously at his cell door, but no guards came running at the sound. He allowed his head to rest back against the wall, his sickened heart easing slightly with the arrival and assurances of his friend. Gwaine did not speak as he worked, instead working at a furious pace that was almost uncharacteristic of him. He constantly threw glances over his shoulder to check if anyone marked what he was doing, but it seemed no one paid any attention a man crouching at a dungeon window. It was supper time for most, at any rate.

            The work did not take long, old and mold-ridden as the bricks were.

            Gwaine sat back and delivered a swift kick to the bars, knocking them free and sending them to the floor with a raging din. Arthur winced at the noise, expecting to hear alarmed cries and pounding boots even as Gwaine shimmied backwards through the window. It was a tight fit, but the thief made it through.

            He gave his ruined dagger a disparaging glance, then tossed it to one side. It was a small price to pay for freedom.

            “What are you going to do about these?” Arthur whispered, twisting his sore, chafed wrists in the manacles to emphasize them.

            Gwaine knelt beside him and examined the lock, which required the use of a key. He glanced around the room as though expecting to find one, but instead he picked up the brittle ribcage of a long-dead rodent that was lying nearby and broke off one of the sturdier ones.

            “Ye say that as if I haven’t got any practice in matters such as these,” Gwaine said, setting to work. He stuffed the point of the rib into the small hole and shook it around.

            “Hurry up,” Arthur hissed.

            “Piss off, princess.” For a moment, there was only the sound of clinking chains. Then Gwaine said, “Oi, speaking of princesses.”

            “Oh, shut up, Gwaine,” Arthur scowled. It was a tender subject for him. The thief had thought long and hard on Guinevere: why she had been avoiding the guards, why she had gone with them, why she had lied to them about her identity, and so on. So far he had not come up with entirely satisfactory answers, and he did not plan on staying long enough to ask her any of it.

            His rescuer merely chuckled and continued with his task.

            Both men froze at the sound of approaching, echoing footsteps.

            Gwaine abandoned his friend and hid in the deep shadows of the corner closest to the door. Just in time, too—the pair of feet stopped at the barred door, which was unlocked to allow the entry of a cloaked figure. Arthur glowered steadily as the stooped person approached him slowly, while Gwaine stealthily raised his hand as though to knock the stranger down.

            But with a flash of gold within the recesses of the hood, the thief was flung into Arthur’s lap by an invisible force. They stared, stunned, as the figure lowered the ragged cloak to reveal steely eyes beset in an aged face. She raised her gnarled hand and flicked her wrist; with another flash of golden eyes, the shackles fell away, freeing Arthur.

            The three regarded one another.

            The old crone was the first to speak. “I will free you,” she croaked, lifting a long-nailed finger, “under one condition: you free my friend from his prison.”

            Gwaine and Arthur exchanged a look.

            “What prison?” they asked.

            “A cave,” answered the old woman, “not far from here. He is trapped there, and I cannot reach him. There are magic-blocking wards, and without magic I am just an old crone. I cannot do it alone.” She extended a hand toward them, shuffling her bent body forward. “Will you help me, in exchange for your freedom?”

            Arthur opened his mouth to refuse. They had been just about to escape on their own, and didn’t need the help of a sorceress.

            “Sounds reasonable,” Gwaine nodded.

            “ _Gwaine_!”

            The old woman smiled sweetly at them—or, it might have once been a sweet smile, but her teeth were rotted and her lips stretched thin. “I will take you to the cave.”

            “What, now?” Arthur raised his eyebrows.

            “Of course,” replied she. “Unless you’d rather have a good night’s rest here?” The crone gestured to the ceiling, where webby white mold grew, and slimy water oozed down the walls. It made Arthur’s stomach turn to look at it; Gwaine shuddered beside him.

            “What he meant was,” Gwaine explained pleasantly, “is that he—that is, _we_ —haven’t had a morsel to eat since the morning. It’s a bit hard to organize a rescue an’ escape on empty stomachs, yeah?”

            Another rotten smile. “Certainly. This way, then.”

            Arthur was more than ready to make a run for freedom, but he couldn’t very well leave his best friend with a witch. He couldn’t shake his uneasiness, either. There seemed something incredibly off-putting about the sorceress, particularly in her eyes—it was the way she looked at him as though she somehow knew him. But Arthur was certain he’d never met her; he would have remembered such a traumatic experience.

            They cautiously followed her out of the cell and into the dim hall. As the stooped crone passed, each torch flared up in its bracket, then extinguished itself. Arthur and Gwaine moved closer together and stayed well back from the causer of the phenomenon. Gwaine looked as though he regretted his quick agreement.

            As they approached the stairs that led to freedom, the thieves spotted the slumped figures of the guards at their gambling table. They slowed at the foreboding sight of congealing blood. It spread thickly over the rough-hewn wood of the table, dripping over the edge to pool at their feet. Glassy eyes stared unseeingly.

            “There is food and wine on the table,” the old crone pointed a gnarled, black-nailed finger. “Eat quickly.”

            Gwaine smiled nervously. “I think…I think I’ve lost me appetite, actually.”

            Arthur was slightly green.

            She shrugged. “We should move quickly. More guards will come soon to take their place, and this unhappy accident will be discovered.” The witch started up the steps.

            Arthur grasped Gwaine’s arm and held him back, looking at him intensely. “Gwaine, they will think I killed them.”

            “Eh? No, ‘course not, mate!”

            “ _Gwaine_. A missing prisoner and two dead guards? My life is forfeit.” He touched a hand to his throat, already able to envision the halter looped around it.

            “Oh, ahhh.” Gwaine looked especially troubled at that. He looked up at the witch, who did not seem to notice that they were not still following. She was entirely focused on making it up the stairs. “Perhaps she will confess to the crime?”

            Arthur shook his head, his stomach rolling. Gwaine squeezed his shoulder, then hurried after the crone. The blond gave a silently apology to the murdered guards, then followed.

            “Where exactly is this cave, er…?” Gwaine trailed off.

            “Not far from here is a lake,” the crone answered without breaking stride or supplying a name. “Not far from that lake is a cave. That is where he is trapped in his lamp.”

            “In his lamp?” Arthur repeated.

            “Allow me to start from the beginning,” she said, lips curling as though she had been waiting to deliver her tale. She told them as they walked, wending their ways through the palace halls to the courtyard, and then through the town toward the gate. “Years ago, when I was still a young woman in Constans Pendragon’s court…”

            “Bloody hell,” Gwaine whispered, “that was only thirty years ago, she was _young_!”

            Arthur shushed him, unwilling to draw the witch’s attention to the insult on her ancient appearance.

            She continued uninterrupted, “…my friend and I, you see, were lovers. But that was before Vortigern came and usurped the throne, killing the Pendragon family and most of the nobles at the court. He replaced them with his own bloodline. We tried to stop the attack, but Vortigern had his own sorcerer, one who practiced black magic. I managed to escape, but my dearest friend was trapped in a lamp.

            “Or, I should say, his _soul_ was captured in the artifact, leaving his lifeless body behind. I brought it to the lake so that his flesh would be preserved by the lady in the water. I had planned to bring the lamp back there to restore him, but the evil sorcerer hid the lamp in the cave, warding it against me. To keep out all others, they commanded the Great Dragon Kilgharrah to guard the caverns.”

            The thieves started.

            “Hold on!” Arthur uttered.

            “Ye never said anythin’ ‘bout a dragon,” Gwaine said.

            The old crone rolled her eyes. “It has been vanquished by a warrior, but that warrior sacrificed himself along with it. You have nothing to worry about.”

            “Oh, well then tha’s all right, innit?” Gwaine responded cheerily. “So all’s we have to do is walk in, get the lamp, and come out again?”

            By that time they had reached the gate, and strolled out unimpeded by the lazy guards. The last rays of the sun painted the sky purple, deepening the shadows of the nearby forest. The first stars began to twinkle above their heads. The moon was a mere sliver.

            “Yes,” the witch said. “And, as your reward, you shall have all the rest of the horded treasure within.”

            Gwaine perked up at once. “Treasure?”

            “What treasure?” Arthur asked. “If there were really a cave full of horded gold, guarded by a dragon, so close to Camelot no less, wouldn’t we have heard about it?”

            The old crone smiled knowingly. “The wards prevent unwitting travelers from discovering the cave. It is only found by those who know where to look. And I am a good secret-keeper, Arthur.”

            “Come now, mate,” Gwaine said, looping an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “Riches beyond measure? A dream come true, innit?”

            “Well, yes,” the younger answered hesitantly. He turned suspiciously to the sorceress. “And you have no desire of the wealth?”

            “My only wish is to be with my love,” replied she. Her eyes shined wistfully. “It has been nigh on forty years since I last laid mine eyes on him. When I am with him, I shall need nothing else.”

            Arthur suddenly felt cruel for doubting her intentions. But then he remembered the murdered guards in the cell, and realized that even if her lover was all she wanted, she was willing to kill for it. He and Gwaine would have to tread carefully.

            They proceeded in silence. The only sounds were those of leaves and twigs crunching underfoot and the various nightlife calling and chattering. The air was growing colder, especially under the protection of the thick-leaved trees, and though Arthur had warmed up considerably since he left the damp cells, he was beginning to dread entering a cave, which was cold, dark and wet—and had no windows. But there was little for it; he and Gwaine (mostly Gwaine) had agreed to retrieve for her the lamp. If they became filthy rich in the process, so be it.

            The alternative was death, at any rate, so Arthur decided he would take his chances.

            It was not so far into the forest as Arthur had thought it would be, but the cave was neither as close as the crone had implied. The moon offered little by which to see, but apparently the old woman had come prepared. From beneath her cloak she produced a pouch, and the men realized that this was what had made her appear hunchbacked; from the leather bag she pulled out a torch, which she lit with a golden flash of her eyes. She handed over the torch to Arthur, then silently gestured to the gaping black mouth of the cave. It looked as though a blockage had been cleared away; small and large stones alike were scattered or piled about them.

            Deep gouges rent the earth in front of it. The claws of some huge creature had made them. Arthur balked; Gwaine visibly swallowed.

            “After you, princess.”

            Arthur scowled, then braced himself up for the task. Perhaps it was better left to the morning, but the thief wanted to get it over with, and then run far away from Camelot. He didn’t know where he’d go, but he would damned if he were going to be executed for the witch’s crime.

            After taking a deep breath, he lifted the torch and marched forward. He was heartened to hear Gwaine’s footfalls behind him.

            He did not even hesitate as he crossed the shadow that marked their entrance into the cave. It was perhaps his imagination, but it felt warmer under the shelter of rock than under the trees. Gwaine let out a huff of laughter as they turned a corner and lost sight of the old crone waiting in anticipation.

            “See, tha’ wasn’t so bad, yeah?”

            Just then, something crunched loudly. Both men leapt in fright, the torch _fwooshing_ loudly as Arthur swung it in every direction, looking for the source. At once the realization that it had come from underfoot seemed to dawn on them, and the blond lowered the flame toward the cavern floor.

            A thick layer of dust had masked their steps, but under that layer were several distinct shapes. Gwaine shifted his boot nervously, upsetting a precariously balanced skull from a ribcage. It toppled with a hideous din, then came to a rest with a leery grin at the thieves.

            Arthur let out a hysterical laugh.

            “Well, I don’t see any lamp,” Gwaine said quickly. “Or gold, for that matter. Let’s go, shall we?”

            “Right, yes,” Arthur nodded, turning to do just that. “I do believe that that is the best idea you’ve had all week, Gwaine.”

            “Yeah, sure, yeah.”

            They hurried back the way they had come, and in only a moment they spotted their guide. Her haggard face fell upon sight of them.

            “No lamp, sorry!” Gwaine said, shaking his shaggy hair. “Another time, maybe.”

            “How many men have you sent in already?” Arthur demanded, gesturing with the torch back toward the cave. “It’s like a catacomb!”

            “You need not worry,” she insisted. “The dragon is slain!”

            “We see nothing but old bones,” Arthur retorted.

            “You did not go far enough!” the old crone spat. “Cowards! Heathens! Worthless boys! You come back empty-handed with your tails between your legs. Oh, would I were able to enter myself and find my dearest treasure! Alas, I am failed, failed, failed—forever failed.” With that, she sank to her knees all atremble and began to sob and wail with abandon, clutching at her hoary hair.

            The thieves stood awkwardly, mouths opening and closing like those of fish.

            A beat passed before Gwaine took pity on her. “M’lady,” he said. “M’lady, please, no more. I shall find your lamp and bring it to ye.”

            She wiped her cheeks with the hem of her cloak. “Oh, thank you!” she gasped out, rocking back to look up at him. “A good man, that’s what you are, a poor old woman’s hero.”

            Gwaine nodded, though he looked put out to be considered anyone’s hero. He thrust his hand out toward Arthur. “Give me the torch, mate. Ye go back to Camelot, get a good sleep. I’ll be along.”

            “Idiot!” Arthur said, holding the torch further out of reach. “If you think I’m letting you go in there alone!”

            The brunet raised his eyebrows, then swiftly grinned, averting his outstretched hand to sweep it through his hair. “I’ll make an adventurer of ye yet!”

            “It was your idea to leave in the first place,” Arthur grumbled, kicking at a stone.

            With that, the pair turned and reentered the darkness.

{Birthright}

            The cave system was dark and winding, but dry and warm, which were the only positives Arthur could see about the situation. They walked in silence, doing their best to avoid treading upon the bones of the unburied. Though the thieves were not superstitious, they did not want to take the chance of incurring the wrath of vengeful spirits. Definitely not when they were practically trapped. Not far into their journey they had come across some tarnished swords in the dismembered skeletal hands of some long dead knights, and had taken them just in case—not that using them on spirits would have any effect.

            It was impossible to tell how long they had been walking. In the darkness, it felt as though hours had passed, seconds marked by their infinite footsteps. The torch crackled steadily as Arthur held it aloft between them, splashing flickering orange light across the cave walls, which were charred black.

            They came at one point to a place open to the sky. Gwaine and Arthur stood looking up, necks craned back. Soft moonlight filtered in through the small opening, alighting on a stone pedestal worn smooth by years of rain. It was the only such stone in the cave. The thieves skirted around it and continued along the tunnel. Once more they were engulfed in darkness.

            Another bend.

            “Gah!”

            The torch slipped from Arthur’s grasp and fell to the floor even as their surprised shout echoed violently. They swiftly extended their swords toward the humongous heap of glittering golden scales—a dragon. It did not seem to notice them, sleeping as it was. But no, it wasn’t sleeping, either.

            After a moment of unsteadiness, the men lowered the weapons cautiously.

            “It’s dead,” Arthur whispered, swallowing hard. “It’s dead.” He put a hand over his fluttering heart, willing it to calm.

            Gwaine let out a laugh, sweeping a shaking hand through his hair. “Aye, tha’ it is.” Then he stooped down and picked up the torch, which, fortunately, had not been extinguished. “Shall we onwards?”

            Arthur cleared his throat and nodded.

            All the same, the thieves edged carefully around the huge carcass. It was so large that they hardly came up to its elbow, which was bent so that its arm was lying trapped beneath its belly. The creature was hardly fat—rather, it was built of lithe muscle, covered in hard golden armor that flashed coldly in the torchlight. The head, they saw, was turned from them—but they had imagination enough to know that it held razor sharp swords for teeth, and saucer-like nostrils that could flare with a raging inferno, and snakelike, paralyzing eyes. The tail itself was as large and long as a horse train, tapering off as did one’s perception of distance. The end of it disappeared into an opening.

            As they approached, the dead dragon flew from their thoughts, no longer as important as the new spectacle.

            This time it was Gwaine who let the torch drop, slowly. The rusted swords were lowered to their sides.

            Breaths stolen by awe, the friends entered the gigantic room in which they found themselves, gazing around in wonder. High above them, several balls of light hung as though they were the unwavering orb of the sun, illuminating the chamber. Mountains of gold, gems of all shape and color, silver, and books towered over their heads, a veritable ocean of wealth as possible only in one’s wildest dreams.

            Arthur felt weak in the presence of such glory.

            Gwaine, however, let out a low whistle. He fell to his knees, tossing aside the now useless torch, and began to rake up a pile of coins. He bit one to test its authenticity and found it true to its appearance. With a gleeful laugh, he stuffed his purse full.

            “Gwaine,” Arthur said breathlessly.

            “We’re rich, Princess! Rich!”

            “Gwaine,” he repeated. He shook his head, suddenly finding his senses. “Remember why we are here. First we must find that poor soul and free him from this prison.”

            “Bah, prison.” Gwaine snorted derisively, but stood. “What I’d give to be imprisoned here!”

            “What, with no women?”

            “Bloody hell, with this kind’a money a man could buy a queen!”

Gwaine followed Arthur as he began to maneuver about the wealth, searching for a golden lamp.

“Just how are we going to find a lamp in all of this?” Gwaine asked, looking around. “There must be hundreds of acres here.”

Arthur merely shook his head in answer. He stood akimbo before the first hillock of gold, looking toward the summit as though mapping out hand and footholds. Perhaps a higher vantage point would aid in the discovery of a lost soul.

A shadow slunk past them. With a startled yelp, both whipped toward it, swords raised threateningly to face to their resurrected, fire-breathing foe.

The owner of the shadow, a curly-haired man, held his hands up in surrender, eyebrows raised in a placating expression. He had a scruffy beard not unlike Gwaine’s.

“Who’re ye?” Gwaine demanded, voice still high pitched with hysterical terror.

Arthur desperately tried to slow his rabbiting heart, taking a deep, calming breath. He’d once faced a wyvern in a dream, but that was a _dream_ for God’s sake! Behind the stranger he spotted the tail of the dragon, unmoved from its position.

The man shook his head, but when Gwaine stepped forward and pressed the tip of his weapon to the stranger’s throat, he opened his mouth to respond. Jewels tumbled from his lips, flashing in the light, and bounced at his feet. The thieves froze, obviously shocked. The precious stone spillage ceased when the stranger shut his mouth again.

“Bloody hell,” Gwaine whispered, wide-eyed.

“Cursed,” Arthur said. “Must be a curse.”

“Curse me with tha’ any day.”

“Gwaine,” Arthur chided. Then he lowered his sword, suddenly conscious that it was still raised, and pushed his friend’s arm down as well. He asked, “Can you write?”

The stranger nodded.

“Can you write your name?” the blond asked. He glanced around for something on which to write, but though there were manuscripts aplenty there were no inkwells or quills. “Er, well…”

The cursed man held up a finger and knelt down amongst the hoard, sweeping away some gems and coins to clear a space. Arthur and Gwaine bent over him and watched as he lined up gold coins.

“L,” Gwaine recognized the rune. “E…O…N. Leh-awn.”

Leon shook his head, frowning at the rogue.

“No, it’s Lee-own,” Arthur corrected him.

Leon shook his head again, gesturing emphatically at the coin letters.

“Lee-un?” Gwaine guessed.

Leon sighed.

“Lay-on,” Arthur tried, but Leon did not give it to him.

Gwaine frowned at the name. “Is tha’ really how it’s spelt? I’m sure me tutor would’ve said summat. But then, I was eleven.”

“If Gwaine doesn’t know, then I certainly don’t,” Arthur confessed. “He’s the one who taught me to read.”

Leon scratched his straw-colored head. Then he placed a hand over O – N, hiding the letters, and pointed at L – E.

“Leh,” Gwaine said.

“Lee,” Arthur answered when Leon shook his head ‘no.’ To that, Leon nodded, then hid L – E and pointed at the uncovered O – N.

“On!” Gwaine cried desperately. Leon nodded courteously, then uncovered the letters, gesturing to the whole of the name.

The thieves said in unison, triumphantly, “Leon!”

Leon applauded them patronizingly, standing from his squatting position and dusting off his calloused hands. The thieves noticed then that he had a sheathed sword at his hip, and of a very fine make at that. It was not too much of a stretch to assume he’d found it amongst the treasures; weapons of high caliber were greatly prized.

Arthur suddenly realized that time had been wasted. “Leon,” he said seriously. “Do you know of a lamp? Well, I suppose there may be more than one lamp, all things considered, but this one, it imprisons a soul.”

“Ye sound mad when ye put it like tha’, Princess,” Gwaine informed him.

But a spark in Leon’s eyes bespoke of understanding and a knowledge of the thing sought. He turned and pointed in the direction from which he had come. The thieves looked past him and saw that at the far end of the cavern was an arched doorway, covered in roughly-hewn runes that seemed quite out of place amongst the beauty. Through the arch was darkness, but it was not total—there seemed to be a sort of light emanating from within.

“A good place to start,” Gwaine commented. “What do ye think, Leon?”

Leon gave him a curious look, but shook it off and led the way toward the offset cavern chamber. Gwaine could not resist touching treasures here and there: a silver chalice, a ruby amulet hanging from a golden candelabra, an ivory figurine of a busty woman (obviously a foreign relic), and a brass pot filled to the brim with diamonds like teardrops. There was much more besides those. He stared longingly over his shoulder, whispering a promise to return, as the trio crossed the threshold of the smaller room.

A soft blue glow washed over them. Arthur looked up and found the source: a blue orb of light hovering high and center. It illuminated the cavern walls, where small golden flowers grew from stone though it should have been impossible, and a crystalline lake below surrounding a small, shrine-like pedestal, atop which was seated a golden oil lamp. But for that, there were no treasures else.

Before Arthur could inquire how one would reach the lamp, Leon pointed out a rickety one-man boat, nearly hidden behind a growth of stone. “I’m going to get it,” he said. His voice, though soft, sounded harsh and discordant in the silence. He started toward it, rolling his heels to avoid taking loud steps.

“I’ll stay here with our friend, then,” Gwaine said in his normal cheery tone. The broad accent defiled the almost sacred feel of the place. He looked at Leon thoughtfully, then extended a hand, palm facing upwards. “Say, mate, how do ye like the weather, eh?”

Leon scowled at him.

Arthur clambered into the boat, hoping it did not tip, for though he could swim the water would certainly be cold, and he was tired of feeling chill. There had been too much of it for him, lately. But it held steady, and hardly wobbled even as he pushed off from shore. The oars were in good shape, so he was able to paddle smoothly.

He steered the small watercraft to the shrine, reaching out a hand as he neared to slow to a stop. The thief was just tall enough to reach the lamp when standing, so he did so carefully, holding on to the surprisingly dry stone to keep his balance. His distorted reflection looked back at him from the shiny golden surface; the light made him appear blue-skinned. The lamp must not have been touched in ages, but it was still as brilliant as if it were newly molded.

He grasped it and lowered himself back into the boat. Arthur took a moment to admire the make of the sleek tool; it was unlike anything he’d seen. He supposed it must have been imported from an Eastern merchant.

With the surprisingly warm weight of the lamp on his lap, the young man rowed himself back to shore. Leon came forward and helped him land. Gwaine stood by the arch nursing a black eye. Arthur didn’t bother to ask.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What about the gold, mate?” Gwaine reminded him. “It belongs to us.”

“It will be here still later,” Arthur responded. “For now, I want to free this soul and then get some sleep in my own bed. And eat.”

“Food sounds good, yeah,” the other agreed, putting a hand over his stomach. “What do you eat around here, Leon?”

Leon stepped out of the room and pointed up as the thieves followed. Arthur spotted a family of bats roosting on one of the overhanging shelves, and shuddered. Perhaps the cursed man hadn’t had any luck fishing.

“Hmm, I’m in the mood fer pickled eggs at the tavern,” Gwaine said, flicking his hair. “Ye should come with us. As much as I’m fer living alone on an island o’ money, a man needs to drink once in a while, yeah?”

“Yes,” Arthur said. “And we know a witch who may be able to break your curse.”

“Or, y’know, ye could keep it and never be poor,” Gwaine shrugged.

Leon nodded slowly.

“You’ll come?” Arthur asked.

He nodded again, this time more certainly.

“Great!” Gwaine exclaimed. “First round’s on Princess.”

Leon grinned, clapping Gwaine on the shoulder. He seemed to say, “Let’s go, then!”

Together, the trio set off toward the main tunnel that wound through the earth back to the surface. Gwaine picked up the torch, which was still burning where he’d dropped it at the entrance. They each walked with a spring in their step, and hardly minded having to move around the Great Dragon’s body. Arthur held the lamp carefully upright, unsure what would happen to the soul (if it were even aware of its surroundings or at all able to feel) if he shook or bounced it too much. He imagined it would be similar to riding a cantering horse, but without having anything to hold onto.

The walk back seemed much shorter than the walk in. (Arthur mused that the flow of time was altered according to mood, which struck him as funny. He resisted the urge to laugh so he would not be obliged to explain it to his friends. Thoughts like that were a woman’s fancy.) Even the brittle bones snapping beneath their weights were no longer a matter of concern. They’d gotten what they had come for.

Finally, they came to the mouth of the cave. It was still nighttime, so they had not realized they had reached the end of it until they heard a delighted croak.

“You have returned!” cried the crone joyously.

They could not yet see her, but the torchlight must have been visible from where she stood to have noticed their arrival.

“The lamp?” she asked as the men discerned her shadowy form in the darkness. She was standing where they had left her some several feet away from the cave. “Do you have it?”

“Aye, we have!” Gwaine said. “Just as I told ye, I’d find it.”

“Give it to me! Give it to me!”

“Here,” Arthur said, holding it up. Her spindly fingers reached for it as Arthur stepped past the threshold of the cavern, but at the last moment another pair of hands snatched it up and backed away into the tunnel. The thieves and witch looked at Leon in surprise. He merely glared at the old woman, tucking the lamp in the crook of his elbow protectively.

Her face contorted acutely. “ _Give it to me!_ ”

Leon mutely shook his head.

“Leon, mate,” Gwaine frowned in confusion, “what’s the matter with ye?”

In response, Leon pointed emphatically at the witch, then to his own mouth.

Arthur glanced between them, brow pinched. “What, she…? _She_ cursed you?”

Leon nodded, again backing away as she tried to make a grab. She could follow him no farther, prevented from entering due to the wards against magic.

“Liar!” she moaned. “Lies, lies, lies!”

Gwaine and Arthur shared a dark look.

“Mate, listen,” Gwaine said, stepping forward and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “How about ye give ‘er the lamp, and _she_ fixes yer curse, yeah?” He looked to the witch as for confirmation.

She nodded quickly, holding out her hands again.

“There, see?” Gwaine smiled.

But Leon shook his head once more, regarding her darkly still.

This time Arthur stepped up to try and convince him. “Leon, I don’t think you understand. The soul in the lamp is her lover, I think. If you give it to her, she’ll undo the curse, and everything will be fine.”

He shook his head, turned, and made to return the lamp. Arthur grabbed hold of the object. “Leon! Please, without this we—“

The witch snapped in her impatience, stretching out her hand toward them. “Aithusa!” she shrieked, startling the men, who turned and watched her with trepidation. “Aithusa, the lamp!”

For a split second, nothing happened, and all was deathly still.

Then an earsplitting roar from above, nearly drowning out the horrible sound of scrabbling claws against stone. A white dragon, not as large as the carcass deep in the bowels of the earth but terrifying nonetheless, appeared, slinking like a lizard down the wall of rock. It bared its teeth, growling in the back of its throat.

The trio gaped in horror, frozen.

Arthur carefully, slowly extricated the lamp from Leon’s slackening grip, and made to set the thing on the ground between them. Hopefully the creature was sentient enough to know that they wanted no trouble, and it would take the treasure and leave.

Aithusa stepped forward, the ground rolling beneath her heavy steps. As she neared she drew herself up so as to tower over the puny humans. Her head and webby wings brushed the low ceiling, loosening a few stones, which fell gently over her smooth back. She inhaled deeply, throat heating rapidly.

“Nice lizard,” Gwaine whispered hopefully.

The dragon took another step. Behind her, the witch was cackling loudly, “The lamp! The lamp! Mine, all mine!”

Suddenly, a blue orb manifested, distracting Aithusa. She observed the phenomenon curiously, fury temporarily abated. The magic light pulsated once, twice, then exploded.

Aithusa screamed, frantically trying to back away from the blinding light, thrashing her limbs every which way. The men cried out and ducked to the floor to avoid slashing claws, shielding their eyes from the light, Arthur holding the lamp tightly and feeling Gwaine pressed up close against him. He didn’t know where Leon was, couldn’t have seen even if he’d tried.

There was an ominous crackling sound, heard above Aithusa’s deafening screams.

In the next moment Arthur felt suddenly weightless. A second later he realized that he was tumbling into a dark abyss—the ground had crumbled like dry bread beneath him. He heard Gwaine’s alarmed shout and knew that they were both going to die.

He screamed.

{Birthright}

“Aithusa!” the witch wailed. Her despaired sobs rent the night air as she dug away the collapsed cave with her bare hands. The wards on the stone were still active, preventing her magic from clearing the rubble.

“The lamp!” she moaned, raking her hands through dust and pebbles. Her nails turned ragged and bled. Clumps of bloody dirt formed around her nail beds and cuticles; her dress and cloak were irreparably stained. “Aithusa! My lamp! Aithusa! Gone! gone! gone! _Damn you, Emrys_!”

The old crone knew her dragon was dead—their bond, which had formed the moment Aithusa had hatched over two decades ago, had been severed. The lamp was lost forever, too. She could no longer feel its power.

It was over.

She keened and retched pitifully, yanking her tangled hair with grimy, bloodied fingers.

It was over.


	5. The Soul from the Lamp

Chapter 4

The Soul from the Lamp

“ _Uhhhh_ …”

Arthur moaned and coughed pitifully. Dust settled heavily in the back of his throat, making him gag horribly. He managed to control his empty stomach after a moment, then focused on his screaming extremities. He felt as though he’d been trampled by a runaway horse; all covered in bruised flesh like an apple that had been dropped and no one wanted; like a lump of dough a strong-armed cook had pounded into submission; like the many more analogies of which he could think in order to delay the act of mutilating his nerve endings. He could still move, at any rate, so he supposed nothing was broken.

As he shifted, rubble rolled off of him and clattered against the surface of whatever lumpy, pointed layer he was lying on in the pitch black. For a split second he feared he had been blinded, but then he remembered the fall. Looking in what direction he presumed to be up, he could see no light, but then it had been night when everything had gone to hell.

At least the dragon didn’t seem to be coming after them. Perhaps it couldn’t, or had lost interest in them.

A sound at his left startled him, and Arthur clutched around for a weapon. His hand met something sleek and warm, and he nearly withdrew before realizing that it must be the lamp. So the dragon had not taken it, was probably shuffling around in search of the treasured object. Arthur grasped it and pulled it close, holding his breath and hoping whatever it was did not notice him. Could dragons smell fear? But no, it couldn’t be the dragon. It had to be…

“Gwaine?” he whispered. His hushed voice sounded odd—tremulous and raspy.

“Mmmmm…Not yet, not yet…Ooh! Hehehe, aye, tha’s the spot…”

“Gwaine!” Arthur could have leapt for joy, never mind the lewd dream his brother in crime was having. “Wake up, Gwaine!” Though his throat was quite dry, his voice came out stronger after taking a moment to clear his throat.

“Hm? Arthur? Mate, I was dreaming of an apple that tasted of a cheese…Or was it a cheese that tasted of an apple…?” His voice sounded thick and groggy, and Arthur wondered how long they had been out. And he knew damn well what Gwaine had been dreaming of.

“Gwaine.”

Arthur reached out, scrambling blindly for his friend until his hand made contact with something warm and woolen. He shook what felt to be Gwaine’s leg.

“Light a candle, would ya?” Gwaine said, sounding irritable, as he usually did when he woke with a headache, which more often than not was caused by a night of drinking and fighting. Arthur suddenly worried that his friend’s head had been injured in the fall.

“I can’t, Gwaine. There’s no wicks or torches, but—hold on, where’s Leon? Leon!”

Gwaine took hold of Arthur’s wrist and used it to pull himself into a sitting position, nearly planting Arthur’s face into the loose bed of rock under them. He seemed to at last be fully awake and aware.

“Leon, mate? If ye can hear me, say some—er, well, clap.”

There was, for what felt to be an hour, silence. But then, a soft _clap_ met their ears. It came from the left.

“Keep clapping ‘til we find ye!”

The clapping continued, soft, intermittent pats in the darkness. The thieves, linking elbows so as not to lose one another, clambered carefully toward it. Hisses and winces punctured the stillness as sharp rocks dug into sore spots, or soft grunts of surprise as the earth suddenly shifted beneath them, sounding like an avalanche to their oversensitive hearing. Arthur had a harder time of it, having limited use of his hands, for his other still carried the lamp. It was a wonder it hadn’t been lost.

It was a wonder they weren’t all dead.

“Aha!” Gwaine said triumphantly. “All right, now, if ye be unhurt, clap twice, mate.”

_Clap. Clap._

“Excellent!” the thief said. “Arthur?”

“I’m all right. Gwaine?”

“Jus’ a bump on the noggin, feels like. I’ll be right well once we find our way out o’ here an’ t’ th’ nearest tavern.”

“What about the witch?” Arthur reminded him. “We can’t be sure she’s gone.”

“Aye, tha’s true…”

They lapsed into a terse silence, trying to think of another way out of their predicament.

Gwaine suddenly gasped and let out a cry of despair.

“What?” Arthur asked, throat closing up with anxiety. Had Gwaine been hurt and just realized an injury? Had Leon gotten his attention about something? Had he seen something just then that Arthur had missed? Had he _felt_ something?

“The _gold_ ,” Gwaine moaned, tightening his grip on Arthur’s arm, and presumably his hold on Leon as well. “The _gold_!”

“Ah,” Arthur said. It had not occurred to him that the treasure might have been lost. But that was hardly the matter at hand, and he told him so in a stern voice that he thought his father used, when he was still around.

“Hardly the matter!” Gwaine repeated. “Princess, that gold was our fortune! We would live as kings! Aye, we might’ve bought our own land! The jobs we could’ve given! The women who would flock t’ us! A tavern in me own hall!”

“There’s no point in having the gold if we’re trapped in here!” Arthur insisted, kicking out with his foot. A stone clattered noisily in the darkness, the sound made all the more acute by their blindness. Arthur’s frustration ebbed, leaving him to feel the residual aches of a hard landing.

“You’re right,” Gwaine conceded. “How do we get out o’ here, then?”

“I…I don’t know,” Arthur admitted, anger tamping down. He sighed heavily. “If only we had some light.”

“Aye. We could’ve used that lamp right ‘bout now!”

“I’ve got it.”

“Really?” There was a rustling noise as Gwaine moved about. “I’ve still got flint! If tha’ lamp has any oil left in it, we’ll be set for a good while.”

“What? No!” Arthur said, appalled.

“Eh?” The movement slowed, but did not stop altogether.

“There’s the soul of a man inside this lamp,” Arthur explained, as though to a child. “We have no idea what lighting the lamp would do to him!”

“I’m sure the bloke won’t feel a thing.”

“God forbid, no!”

“Well, then what do _ye_ want to do, Princess? We can’t bloody well starve down here! Our choices are fairly limited.”

“I know that.”

“Why don’t we let Leon decide? Leon, if ye’d rather live, clap twice.”

Arthur let out a frustrated huff. “Don’t you think we should at least try to—I don’t know, let the soul out?”

“How, Princess?”

The blond chewed at his lower lip thoughtfully. “Well, I s’pose we could…Hold on.” He let go of Gwaine and held the warm lamp in both hands. His fingertips found the stopper at the top, and after a moment of hesitation, he pulled it free.

Nothing happened.

“Hold on,” he said again, pushing the stopper back inside. It squeaked unnaturally loud.

He held the lamp out at a length by the curved handle, then tipped it forward. He heard the light splash of oil against rock, but again nothing happened.

“Hmm.”

“Lemme try,” Gwaine said.

They fumbled for a moment in the darkness until they managed to successfully pass it between them. Arthur almost regretted it, suddenly realizing that Gwaine might take the opportunity to light the lamp with his flint. Metallic tapping echoed.

“What _are_ you doing, Gwaine?”

“Knocking.”

“ _Knocking_.”

“Aye, Princess, knocking! What, have ye a better idea? Shut up, then.”

The tapping continued for longer than was strictly necessary, considering the soul within did not respond. Arthur held back the sarcastic suggestion to ask whether anyone was home.

“Perhaps the crone lied about there being a person inside it,” Arthur said reluctantly. “But I can’t imagine why.”

“If there is one, lighting it might release ‘im.”

Arthur took the lamp back, closing his eyes glumly. There was little choice in the matter, if they were going to find their way out of the dark hole. Feeling sorry for the man, if he were indeed entrapped, Arthur rubbed his palm along the length of the sleek gold by way of apology. He felt a slight shiver as he did so, though it was not cold, and was struck by the sudden urge to do it again, and then once more.

He cried out and dropped it as the thing suddenly grew molten hot, heat scorching his callused hands.

“Bloody hell!” Gwaine exclaimed.

The lamp, which had landed right-side up, began to glow brighter and brighter, like a lump of iron in the forge, rattling of its own accord. They were forced to shield their eyes when the light’s intensity grew akin to the direct midday sun.

A jovial laugh rent the air.

Arthur lowered his arm, eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt to adjust to the light, which had dimmed considerably. He gaped at the tall, lanky figure that stood over him, grinning widely. He stood akimbo with the lamp, which was still emanating light, at his feet. He was dressed as a peasant in a blue shirt that was slightly too large for his skinny frame and a red neckerchief, and had short dark hair that was unkempt and stuck out the most around his large ears. His bright blue eyes held no malice, but Arthur was not sure he could judge on appearance alone. After all, he would not have suspected the old crone of evil.

“Which of you rubbed my lamp?” the strange man asked.

Arthur meekly signaled, swallowing thickly, as Gwaine and Leon gestured at him.

The man from the lamp let out an ecstatic whoop, swiftly pulling Arthur to his feet with a solidity and strength that the thief would not have thought possible, and throwing his long arms around him in an embrace. Arthur could not find the appropriate reaction, and so did nothing but stare even as the man—the very real, flesh and blood man—released him and bounced around, chattering excitedly all the while.

“I’m free! I’m free! Finally free from the lamp! Oh, it’s so good to see _people_ , real people. And I can _touch_ you.” As though to punctuate the statement, he grasped Arthur by the shoulders and shook him. “I could _kiss_ you!”

Arthur, shocked out of his shock, so to say, at last had the presence of mind to open his mouth, making him appear as the slack-jawed Gwaine and Leon standing nearby, but the man spoke before he had the chance to refuse any sort of favor such as kissing.

“What year is it? Who are you? You don’t look like Druids, but what do I know? I don’t even know how long it’s been! Fashion is so fickle, isn’t it? Is Kilgharrah around, still? I recognize this place—it’s his cave. O Kilgharrah!” The name sounded harsh compared to the rest of his speech—he spoke it gutturally, as though he were growling it. It would have come off as threatening had it not been for the joyous smile that seemed as though it would break his face in two. He cocked his head back and forth, then upwards, as though waiting for an answer.

“You…” Arthur cleared his parched throat. “You are the soul from the lamp.”

“Hmm,” the man hummed, running a hand over the stone wall. “And what gave that away?” He turned to the blond, still grinning, but this time with a more mischievous tone. “I almost didn’t recognize you in the dark, Constantine. But I know your voice. Are these new knights of yours?”

“C—Constantine?” Arthur wrinkled his nose at the unbefitting name. He pointed to himself. “I am Arthur.”

The other paused in his exploration of the pocket-like sinkhole. His smile gave way to confusion. “Oh,” he uttered. “Then you do not know Constantine? Have not heard of him?”

“I know there was a king named Constantine,” Arthur said, “but he was long before my time, and I bear no relation to him.”

“Hmm. The resemblance is striking.” Merlin approached him again, passing the still-gaping Gwaine and Leon. They could not, as much as Arthur, appear to comprehend that the man from the lamp seemed to be quite real, and—perhaps more importantly—actually _there_. “Do you know of Constantine II’s children? What are their names? Let me think…Constans, the eldest son.” He counted on his fingers, brow puckered in concentration. “Er, Ambrosius, and Ector—he adopted, or fostered, I think—and how can I forget sweet little Caelia? Oh, and I _am_ forgetting Uther. But he was not a very remarkable child, considering he was the youngest and still in skirts. Never much liked the little prat.”

Arthur stared, mind reeling. “Uther…was the name of my father.”

The stranger had the decency to adopt an embarrassed look. “Ah, did I say he was a prat? Well, he was as a child. Perhaps he’s changed. What do I know? I’ve been in there.” He gestured to the glowing lamp. “But your father! Arthur son of Uther son of King Constantine II.”

The thief frantically shook his head. “You’re confused! There must have been another man named Uther, and _he_ was my father, not some prince. I am not royal.”

The raven-haired man snorted, eyeing Arthur’s clothes. “Obviously. A shame, though. Constantine was a good king, but I suppose he was conquered or usurped—or Constans was.” He seemed relatively unbothered by the entire situation, and didn’t seem to realize that they were trapped, or that Gwaine and Leon still were shell-shocked. “Where _is_ Kilgharrah?” he murmured as he resumed exploring.

As the impossible man moved away, Arthur shuffled toward his friends.

“Mate,” Gwaine whispered as he neared, reaching out and grasping his elbow. “What th’ bloody hell is this? What did ye _do_?”

“I…I rubbed the lamp,” Arthur hissed back, just as confused. “I suppose that’s what summoned him?”

“Ye’d think a magic lamp would need some magic words, not a belly rub.”

“Yes.”

The trio watched him move about, unsure of how to proceed. They had known about magic, had seen it in practice, though they had never seen such a powerful manifestation of it as this man. And as far as they could see from the lamplight, there was no escape but up one sheer wall. It couldn’t be done. They were trapped with the stranger.

“Say,” the man turned to them. “How exactly did you end up down here? There are no doors, and my magic is being suppressed—by wards, I expect.”

Arthur felt weak. “You have magic?”

“Well, I wasn’t sealed away for being a defenseless manservant,” he chuckled.

_Great_ , Arthur thought. _Not only_ is _he magic, but he can wield it as well. What if he’s as evil as that old crone? They were lovers, after all…_

“Then, um,” Gwaine said nervously, finally finding his voice, “why were you sealed away, exactly?”

“It’s a bit of a long story, actually,” he said brightly. “Why don’t we all introduce ourselves first, and then we’ll share the tales of what led us here?”

“All right…I’m Arthur.”

“Gwaine. And this is Leon. He’s cursed.”

Leon inclined his head in a respectful greeting.

“I see,” the man from the lamp said. “I go by many names. I am Emrys, the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth. But my friends call me Merlin.” He grinned brightly. “In fact, only the Druids call me Emrys. It can be a bit off-putting sometimes, I tell you. I suppose, following that logic, that you all are not Druids. You’d have known me if you were, and we’d have been able to mindspeak.”

Arthur didn’t follow half of what the man had just said, but he nodded anyway.

Merlin continued, “Right, you want to know why I’ve been hidden away in a lamp. Let me start from the beginning:

“I was born with magic. A warlock, you see. Many people accused my mother of consorting with a demon and spawned me, but really my father was a Dragonlord—but that’s another story. When I came of age, I went to Camelot to study under a master sorcerer. I excelled and surpassed him quickly. I was appointed Court Sorcerer by King Constantine II, but many were resentful of my new status, especially given how young I am—was. But I took on a student of my own, and taught her what I knew.

“Little did I know how dark her heart had become…There is nothing that so hardens a woman’s heart as the deaths of her children. Her firstborn, Morgause, to illness, and then her son, Mordred, to that evil Agravaine…”

He trailed off, lost in an apparently disturbing memory.

Then Merlin cleared his throat, coming back to the present. “Um, to make a long story short, she managed to find a binding spell, hoping that through me she could achieve great power. But her plan was thwarted by a good friend of mine, who separated my soul from my body and hid away both halves to be protected by magic as old as time—that is, Kilgharrah here, and the lady of the lake of Avalon. Only once the sorceress was defeated would I be merged again.”

His bright grin came back in full force. He did not notice the surprised looks shared by the trio. “I s’pose now she’s dead! After all, why else would I be freed? Thank you, Arthur. And you, Gwaine, Leon. I suppose Kilgharrah’s off hunting. I’ll have to call him here.”

“How could you call someone here?”

Without responding to the question, Merlin tipped his head back and roared—quite literally roared: “ _O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!”_

Gwaine and Arthur had stepped away not only due to the force of the call, but because Merlin’s eyes had turned gold. A moment later, though, they had changed back to blue as though nothing had happened. The transformation had made the goofy angles of the young man look fierce and otherworldly, almost fae, and Arthur decided then that he never wanted to find himself on the warlock’s bad side.

As the last echoes of his roar faded, a vague puzzlement overcame Merlin’s features.

“Where _is_ that blasted dragon?”

Another unnoticed glance passed amongst the mortals.

“Er, was ‘e a great, er, golden one?” Gwaine asked tentatively.

“That’d be him!”

“I believe he’s, er…well, Kilgurren is…Arthur, what’s happened with Kullchurrah again?”

Expectant eyes turned on Arthur, who froze. If only he could delegate the task of telling the powerful sorcerer that his precious dragon was dead to Leon; he most certainly would have, if the cursed man were able to speak. “Um, see, uh…” Usually he was much more eloquent, but the presence of a magic-wielder was putting him all out of sorts.

“He’s dead, isn’t he,” Merlin supplied. When no one denied it, shuffling awkwardly, it was confirmation enough, and he sighed deeply. “I might have known it. He would have come when I called…How did this happen?”

“Er, well, we’re not quite sure,” Arthur said. “The witch said that a warrior had vanquished it—him, I mean.”

“Aye,” Gwaine jumped in. “She also said tha’ ye and she were lovers, once.”

Merlin’s eyes widened slightly, then he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Lovers? No, it couldn’t be. I had one love all my life, and she’s no longer of this earth. Of that I am most certain.”

They lapsed then into an awkward silence. No one was quite sure what to say, or even if there was anything to say. Arthur pitied Merlin. To be gone so long—half a century, at least—only to come back and find himself trapped, powerless, and to hear that his dragon is dead, and that the witch who should have been defeated or else passed away might still draw breath.

“Perhaps…” Merlin trailed off, running his hand thoughtfully along the gritty wall. “Perhaps…I can overcome the wards.”

He closed his eyes then without waiting for a response, his brow furrowed in concentration. The trio watched him as he seemed to enter into a sort of trance, whispering words of power. Only his lips moved; the rest of him remained still, as though frozen in time. Arthur felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he saw flashes of gold beneath his thick, dark, fluttering lashes. He didn’t think he could ever get used to it.

They waited with bated breath, anticipating his moment of triumph. The seconds dragged by, then the minutes crawled past, and then time seemed to slow to a standstill, like a pond frozen in winter. All but Merlin grew restless. Gwaine patted his stomach comfortingly when it grumbled impatiently. No one dared speak for fear of distracting the warlock.

After what seemed like forever, Merlin slowly opened his bright blue eyes, falling silent.

“Well?” Arthur asked tentatively.

A soft smile touched the brunet’s mouth. “I cannot do it.”

“Ehhh,” Gwaine drew the sound out almost playfully, and Arthur recognized the tone as the one he adopted before he started a brawl. He tensed, prepared to intervene should Gwaine try it. “I thought ye were th’ most powerful sorcerer to walk th’ earth?”

“So I’ve been assured,” Merlin replied rather pleasantly. “I’ve never known the Druids to be wrong. If I cannot master these wards, then no one can—perhaps not even the caster. We shall have to improvise.”

“Improvise?” the thieves repeated in unison.

Grinning as he had when he was first freed from the lamp, Merlin pointed at Leon, who seemed ready to leap out of the way of a lightning bolt. “Tell us a story, good sir knight!”

“ _Knight_?” the thieves uttered with disbelief.

Leon tried to convey that he could not speak by putting one hand over his throat and shaking his head, his curls bouncing desperately.

Merlin cocked his head. “Yes, I know you are cursed. I felt it the moment I appeared. And I do know what curse it is. Yes, I can break it, but not now, for I am rather powerless. Anyway, speak! It’s up to you to get us out of here. Speak, Sir Leon, speak!”

Despite the urge to heroism, Leon merely floundered, and Arthur and Gwaine stared on. Merlin’s shoulders rose and fell as he heaved a put-upon sigh.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, when you speak gold and jewels fall from your lips. If you were to speak long enough, you’d fill up this cavern with them, and we shall be able to climb to freedom.” Merlin pointed upwards, where the men could see the gray, peeking light of dawn. “It’s like the fable of the donkey in the dry well. The farmer cannot fetch him out, so he decides that he will bury the poor sod to put it out of its misery. He shovels a pile of dirt in. The donkey shakes it off and steps up. The farmer shovels in more dirt. The donkey shakes it off and steps up. And so on, until the donkey has shaken off and stepped up so many times that he can walk out of the well.”

“That’s the stupidest story I’ve ever heard,” Arthur grimaced, forgetting momentarily that the sorcerer could smite him at a moment’s notice.

Merlin shot him a look. “Listen, clotpole, it’s a fable. It means never give up!”

“But it’s entirely unrealistic,” Arthur protested. “Donkeys do not possess the intelligence to do such a thing. And besides, we might well starve to death before Leon can talk out enough to shake off and step up! And _also_ , clotpole isn’t a word.”

Merlin shrugged. “Of course it is, you prat. Anyway, if you die, you die. But if we get out of here thanks to my idea, I’ll change you to an ass and we’ll test your theory.”

“No need,” Gwaine said, looping an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. He seemed to have forgotten his own irritability in favor of preventing Arthur from saying something which he might regret. Or perhaps he felt comradery with someone so easily able to insult his friend. “He’s already an ass.”

Arthur, red-faced, shoved his friend off when he tugged at one of his ears. Gwaine stumbled and fell, laughing.

Merlin grinned at the pair, then returned his attention to Leon. “It matters not what story you tell. You could insult us continuously, for we cannot hear your voice nor read your lips. Go on, then. You’re our only hope.”

“No pressure,” Gwaine said from his lounging position.

Leon frowned for a moment, apparently thinking of something to say. Then he started. Droplets of gold and jewels poured forth, tinkling like rain against the stones. While in the treasure room it had seemed a fortune from his tongue, now it was quite a meager phenomenon. They were the sands in an hourglass compared to the sands of a beach.

Merlin sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the sheer wall of the chamber. “This will take a while. Anyone know any good songs?”

Gwaine grinned swiftly at the invitation. “My friend, yer lookin’ at a master o’ th’ arts.”

“Oh, God,” Arthur muttered under his breath.

Unheeding of his friend’s despair, Gwaine belted out a bawdy tune that would have made a troll blush:

_I was up to me arse in the muck, Sir,_

_With a peat contract down in the bog_

_When me shovel it struck something hard, Sir,_

_That I thought was a rock or a log_

_T'was a box of the finest old oak, Sir,_

_T'was a foot long, and four inches wide_

_And not giving a damn for the Fairies_

_I just took a quick look inside_

_Now I opened the lid of this box, Sir,_

_And I swear that my story is true_

_T'was an ancient and old Irish condom_

_A relic of Brian Boru_

_T'was an ancient and old Irish condom_

_T'was a foot long, and made of elk hide,_

_With a little gold tag on its end, Sir,_

_With his name, rank, and stud fee inscribed_

_Now, I cast me mind back through the ages_

_To the days of that horny old Celt_

_With his wife lyin' by on the bed, Sir,_

_As he stood by the fire in his pelt_

_And I thought that I heard Brian whisper_

_As he stood in the fire's rosy light_

_"Well, ye've had yer own way long enough, dear..._

_'Tis the hairy side outside, tonight."_

Arthur groaned loudly, quite disgusted and embarrassed. Leon buried his face in one hand, shaking his head. He had not stopped speaking, though, moneys still falling from his lips. It had provided lighthearted music throughout the rendition.

Merlin merely laughed alongside Gwaine, clutching his belly. “You’ve got to teach me that one!” he giggled. “By the gods!”

“There’s plenty more where tha’ came from,” the Irishman beamed proudly. He didn’t usually get such encouraging reactions from his drunk audience, let alone one as sober as Merlin.

“I’ve got one, I’ve got one,” Merlin gasped out, desperately composing himself enough to sing:

_My man John had a thing that was long._

_My maid Mary had a thing that was hairy._

_My man John put his thing that was long,_

_into my maid Mary's thing that was hairy._

_My maid Mary then stirred it about,_

_till with stirring and stirring at length it came out,_

_but then my man John thrust it in once again,_

_and knocked it most stoutly to make it remain;_

_but John with much knocking so widened the hole,_

_that his long thing slipped out still in spite of his soul,_

_'till wearied and vexed and with knocking grown sore,_

_cried, "A pox take the hole for I'll knock it no more!"_

            Gwaine positively shrieked with laughter, mixing with Merlin’s chortling that echoed and gave Arthur a devilish headache. “Can’t we sing something nice?” he asked plaintively. Leon nodded fervently, causing the treasures falling from his still moving lips to spray in different directions.

            “Oh, all right,” Gwaine said, sharing a look with Merlin that clearly denoted Arthur’s party-ruining status. “Ye go on, then. Sing summat.”

            Arthur let out a put-upon sigh. “I don’t know many songs,” he protested.

            “Ye mean ye don’t know any nice ones,” Gwaine said sagely. Merlin nodded in agreement, laughing still.

            Arthur scowled. “Fine, I remember one my father used to sing.”

            “Let’s hear it, then!” Gwaine said.

            “Fine!” Arthur cleared his throat, knowing that later his voice would protest such harsh treatment when there was nothing to drink. He began, softly and self-consciously:

_When the nightingale sings,_

_The trees grow green,_

_Leaf and grass and blossom springs,_

_In April, I suppose;_

_And love has to my heart gone_

_With a spear so keen,_

_Night and day my blood it drains_

_My heart to death it aches._

_I have loved all this past year_

_So that I may love no more;_

_I have sighed many a sigh,_

_Beloved, for thy pity,_

_My love is never thee nearer,_

_And that me grieveth sore;_

_Sweet loved-one, think on me,_

_I have loved thee long._

_Sweet loved-one, I pray thee,_

_For one loving speech;_

_While I live in this wide world_

_None other will I seek._

_With thy love, my sweet beloved,_

_My bliss though mightest increase;_

_A sweet kiss of thy mouth_

_Might be my cure._

            He found that he could not remember the rest, if there was more. As the ringing echoes of his voice faded, Arthur first was aware of Leon’s applause. He nodded courteously to him, blushing.

            “Very nice, Princess,” Gwaine said. “We ought t’ have been locked in a tower rather than stuck down ‘ere. Then a knight might’ve come rescue us.”

            He and Merlin laughed. Arthur sighed as Gwaine thought up another bawdy ballad. It was going to be a long night.


	6. An Old Friend

Chapter 5

An Old Friend

Gaius woke, as always, at the crack of dawn to carry out his duties. He quickly bathed his hands and face using the cold basin water on the window sill, muttering a morning prayer as the first rays of golden sun peeked over the distant horizon. He generally commended the souls of the deceased to heaven, and evoked blessings on the sick and the poor, and then proceeded to more specific prayers: he prayed that Lancelot du Lac be received by the heavenly host with grace, that Guinevere be blessed with a suitor, that Elyan be miraculously healed of his affliction, that Lady Morgana’s—

His prayers were interrupted by a startling sight down in the courtyard, which his chambers, unorthodoxly located in the tower, overlooked. A bedraggled figure stumbled toward the main doors. Gaius’ first thought was that this was a beggar come to seek early alms, despite their presence being banned by majority vote by the court, but then he realized that he recognized those black curls hanging like a curtain from the dusty hood. This was no beggar.

At once he crossed himself, fervently offering an apology for cutting the prayer short. Then he slipped on his shoes, swiftly robed himself, and set off as quickly as his arthritic limbs would allow to meet the arrival.

He managed to reach the doors just as they moved open of their own accord—or, rather, by magic. Silhouetted by the rising sun, the woman made for a frightening, death-like figure. If Gaius had been more superstitious he might have bethought it an omen.

“Morgana,” Gaius said, eyebrow rising in alarm at her state. “What on earth has happened to you?”

She stepped inside, limping slightly. Dark bags hung under her red-rimmed eyes, and muddy tear-tracks stained her usually pale cheeks; the cloak she wore was tattered and torn, and covered in a layer of dust; the lower front of her skirt was muddied; and her fingers, Gaius saw, were ragged and caked with filth, so unlike their prestigious mistress.

“Gone,” she intoned. Morgana did not seem to notice Gaius even when he spoke. Instead, her eyes were fixated ahead, intent on her destination—likely her own bedchambers. “Forever gone…” She passed him unseeingly.

“Morgana,” he tried again, his voice more insistent.

She paused then, swaying on her feet. “Yes?” she asked, light and airy. It was an attempt at normalcy which did not fool either of them, though Gaius recognized it for the deflection of serious questioning it was.

“Are you quite all right?”

“Of course, Gaius,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

He regarded her solemnly for a moment. “Shall I send a handmaid to help you?”

“I have no use of a handmaid,” she replied tartly. “I am merely tired. I must rest. Thank you.”

“Very well,” he said, but she had already begun to stalk off, straightening herself somewhat for pride. Only once she had rounded the far corner did he frown, turning and looking out through the still open doors. On the marble steps lay two crumpled guards, snoring, their spears still crossed as though to bar someone’s entry.

Some sense of foreboding, unfounded and perhaps not, for Gaius’ instincts were usually correct in one form or another, deposited a lead weight in his belly. There was only one way to be sure. He would have to go there himself.

For an old man of over seventy, Gaius was swift and fit, though his hurry had left him breathless upon arrival at his destination. He had taken a roundabout way in an attempt to avoid those who might stop him as he wended his way to the city wall and out to the forest, following a path that, for all the years he had neglected it, remained quite familiar.

At the edge of the clearing he froze, worst fears confirmed.

The hidden cave was in ruins, completely collapsed. A tapering white length protruded from the rubble. Upon closer inspection, Gaius realized that it was the tail of a dragon. Certainly it did not belong to Kilgharrah; he was much larger and golden besides. Considering the damage, it would seem both dragons were dead.

Shaking his head for the loss of such magnificent beings, Gaius bypassed the blocked mouth of the cave. An old, mossy oak towered beside the rock wall, its roots probing at the steep incline. Where thick branches met the stone, living wood twisted, bent, and fused, creating strange shadows and shapes.

He peered into a small knothole at eye level. Years before, the knothole had been quite imperceptible, hidden amongst the roots. Gaius counted it as a blessing for his old bones that he would not have to crawl around in the mucky leaves. It had seemed a good idea in his indestructible youth.

The old man reached into the knothole, brushing his fingers against the damp moss within. His blue eyes flashed gold as the tree quivered with power. The sky above rumbled ominously; God’s yellow eye was clouded over. Gaius paid the phenomenon no heed.

“It is early,” he murmured, lashes fluttering closed. “But it is time.”

{Birthright}

            “Soft!” Merlin said suddenly, perking up.

            Though no one had really been speaking since their voices had grown rusty from so much singing, disregarding Leon who had been working tirelessly to build them a stair of gems, the air seemed to grow quieter anyway. The jewels had made little headway—the most stable pile they had raked up only reached their calves when standing, and they had climbed slowly and steadily through the night—and Arthur was quite sure that they would die before they escaped that way.

            “The wards,” Merlin grinned, “they’ve been removed!”

            Gwaine let out an excited whoop, but Arthur’s chest constricted fearfully. “It could be a trap,” he said.

            “No,” the warlock responded. “If the witch knew how to remove the wards she would have done so long ago. Only two in this wide world know the secret, and one of them is no longer with us. My old friend has come.”

            “And he’ll get us out?” Arthur asked. His heart rate elevated with both excitement and relief. They would be free, after all! He and Gwaine would have to run from Camelot should the murder of the guards be put upon Arthur, but they would at least be alive. And free. Money did not so much matter to Arthur as did his life. In fact, he much preferred air to wealth.

            “I can get us out myself,” Merlin grinned. “All of you, grab onto me.”

            “Why?” Gwaine asked.

            “I can use my magic now.”

            “Right,” he said. But rather than grasping Merlin as instructed, Gwaine knelt down and began to noisily stuff his pockets with gold, then made a makeshift pouch by lifting the hem of his tunic and holding it closed with a fist. The others watched him impatiently, but he took no mind of the glares. Arthur and Leon each took one of Merlin’s arms.

            “Gwaine,” Arthur said at last.

            “Half a moment.”

            “ _Gwaine_.” Really, he couldn’t take the man anywhere without embarrassment.

            “All right, all right.” He stood and grudgingly grabbed Merlin’s thin shoulder. “I’m ready, mate.”

            “Hold tight,” the warlock said, lifting his face toward the ceiling.

            His eyes flashed from blue to gold.

            Arthur expected to somehow be launched toward the opening above them, and braced himself accordingly. Merlin severely misrepresented his namesake, though, because rather than flight they were engulfed in a veritable tornado. The sharp winds kicked up dust, and was strong enough to move small pebbles and set the jewels to rolling. Soon enough his visibility was obscured by the whirlwind—and the ground dropped away.

            With a startled gasp, he redoubled the strength of his hold on Merlin. Just as quickly as the weightlessness had appeared, it was gone. Arthur’s legs buckled beneath him, and he fell heavily onto the leafy blanket.

            The wind dispersed a moment later.

            Only Merlin was left standing, unperturbed by the experience.

            “A little,” Gwaine wheezed, “warning would’ve been nice.” He was lying in a pool of scattered jewelry.

            Merlin’s only response was to laugh, but his expression turned to serious contemplation as he turned to Leon. He extended his open palm and spoke a word. His blue eyes once again turned to gold and back again. “There,” he said cheerily. “I have removed the curse, Sir Leon. Now if only I could do the same to—“

            He broke off, spotting movement across the clearing. Arthur whipped around, suddenly fearing that the witch had returned after all, but only saw a hoary-headed old bishop.

            “Gaius?”

            “Merlin,” the old man greeted him warmly.

            Merlin grinned. “Gaius, you haven’t aged a day.”

            The old man raised an eyebrow. “It is I who should be saying that to you, my _boy_. It’s been fifty-four years since we last met.”

            “That long, hmm?” Merlin cocked his head. “I say, you look quite well for a seventy-three year old prat. You must tell me all about what has happened during my absence, Gaius. But after we retrieve my body from the lake.”

            “No,” Gaius’ good-natured smile faded. “No, Merlin, that is not possible.”

            “What on earth do you mean?” Merlin asked, wide-eyed. “Did you not commend me to Freya’s keeping?”

            “Of course I did,” Gaius sighed. “But the sorceress is not dead. ‘Twas she who brought Arthur here.”

            “And me,” Gwaine interjected. Gaius gave him a sharp look from which he did not recoil. “Only sayin’. I was here, too.”

            “Be silent,” Leon said, his tone rough from disuse. “Do you not recognize your Regent?”

            “I liked ye better when ye couldn’t speak, I think.”

            “Hold your tongue, or I shall blacken your other eye, man.”

            Gwaine looked as though he were going to retort, but Merlin spoke. “As long as she lives, I cannot risk becoming whole. My body and my soul may operate on separate planes, but they shall never merge so long as her curse remains.”

            Gaius shook his head. “In any case, the witch is planning something, I’m sure. She must believe that she has failed in her quest. Now she has nothing to lose.”

            “Indeed.”

            Arthur and Gwaine exchanged a glance, feeling entirely out of the loop.

            “Er, well,” Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. His mouth was very dry, making him acutely aware of how long it had been since he’d had a drink. “Seeing as we’re no longer needed, I s’pose we’ll just…be on our way.”

            “Not quite so fast,” Gaius said.

            Arthur and Gwaine, who had attempted to beat a quick retreat, halted and turned back with the most innocent expressions they could muster. They saw that Leon, chin held high, had taken a respectable, noble stance behind his regent, though he wore no armor or weapon. He must have lost his sword during the fall.

            “Have you no shame?” the bishop chided them.

            Arthur indeed had shame at that moment under his scrutiny, though he was not entirely sure why. Cheeks tinged slightly red, he lowered his face. Gwaine remained unabashed, and in fact seemed affronted.

            “An’ wha’ve we t’ be ashamed o’, then?” Gwaine asked, his accent more clipped than usual. “We dinnae ask fer any o’—“ He waved his hands about, searching for the right word that would convey the hell through which they had been put. “This!”

            Gaius remained quite calm. Arthur thought he saw a spark of amusement in the twist of his withered lips, and a distinct twinkle in Merlin’s eyes that bespoke of the same. Leon was quite impassive. Gwaine, for all his previous attempts at humor, wanted to escape just as much as Arthur did.

            “You will leave us to face this problem alone?”

            Gwaine scoffed, bitterness rearing its ugly head. “As far as I can see, this problem belongs to the aristocracy, yeah?”

            “Gwaine,” Merlin said, seeming to sense that he had some quarrel with the noble class, “I cannot do this alone. I cannot merge with my body; without my body I am confined to this lamp.” He gestured to the artifact at his feet, which had followed when they had been transported. “Gaius is unable to fight, old and weak as he is.”

            “Well,” Gaius said, “not so much that as my magic is out of practice.”

            “And he was never a match for the witch anyway,” Merlin continued. Gaius rolled his eyes. “And Leon—“ he turned to him, “I do not doubt you are loyal to your kingdom and would do whatever is asked of you, but even you are not enough.”

            Leon squared his shoulders proudly. “You shall have the backing of every knight of Camelot.”

            “And I thank you, but there is not much mere men can do against a powerful sorceress.” Merlin did not seem to realize he had insulted two of the company, and plowed onwards. “Gwaine, Arthur, I sense that you two are vital to our success.”

            “What, have you foresight now, too?” Arthur asked bitingly. “You didn’t sense anything when we were stuck down there!” He pointed emphatically at the cave; shuddering at the grotesque sight of a white tail gleaming. The dark sky rumbled, threatening rain. He glanced up, hoping it would hold off until they’d found some shelter, but when he looked down Merlin’s face had darkened considerably. Arthur was struck with the sudden thought that it was _Merlin_ who was controlling the weather. But that was impossible…Wasn’t it?

            “I cannot stop my feelings,” Merlin shrugged. “They simply come…Usually I can sense when there will be danger. And now, I have that feeling. But somehow I just know that you two are most important…” A light came into his eyes as his gaze swiftly passed around. “Let me put it this way: if we were chess pieces, I’d be the king, for I am the coveted thing which is protected. Gaius, the bishop—you cannot attack directly. You must return to Camelot and act as though nothing is wrong. Leon, the knight, our strategist. You must somehow rally the knights in secret. Gwaine, the rook—once you’ve set your sights on something you stop at nothing to achieve it. And Arthur…Arthur, you’re the queen in all this!”

            “I’d rather not,” Arthur said glumly, bracing himself for the Princess jokes from the thief beside him. A delighted look had crossed Gwaine’s scruffy face, but the jibe was not immediately forthcoming because Merlin continued excitedly, “Yes, it makes sense! I can feel it in my very soul…Well.”

            Arthur wrinkled his nose. “What is it with you and allegories, _Mer_ lin?”

            “What is it with you and being a prat?” Merlin retorted. “Just like your father, aren’t you?”

            The blond bristled. “I _told_ you—“

            “Now, now!” Gaius interrupted, holding up his hands. “Really, we ought to all get along, at least until the danger’s passed. How are we going to defeat the witch?”

            Leon stepped forward. “First we need to determine our target—who, where, and when.”

            “The sorceress,” Merlin said, “will likely attempt to destroy the object of her hate: Camelot. She intended to use my power to do so, to crush it into oblivion, but now that I am no longer available, she will try another way. Probably she will usurp the throne.”

            “Then she is definitely in Camelot,” Leon said.

            “Yes.”

            “Perhaps we can plan this o’er drinks?” Gwaine suggested.

            “Of course,” Merlin said apologetically. “I don’t feel thirst, since I’m not exactly a _real_ person at the moment, but it has been a while for you all, hasn’t it?”

            The reminder made Arthur’s throat ache all the more.

            “I will not be able to join you,” Gaius said apologetically. “I needs must return to the palace soon, or I will be missed.”

            “There won’t be much to miss, my lord,” Leon said seriously, “if the sorceress decides to enact whatever plan she has in mind soon.”

            “Enough with all this ‘my lord’ nonsense,” Gaius admonished, but with a smile. “But you do have a point, young man. I shall return to Camelot to gauge the situation. If I sense danger, I will go to the lake,” he gestured in the direction, opposite of the way he had come. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I must bring the Prince and Princess with me, should it come to that.”

            Arthur’s expression turned dour at the mention of Princess Guinevere. She was the reason that he and Gwaine were in this mess in the first place. But he remembered her apologetic demeanor when she had met them, and softened. Then he thought of her sharp, authoritative tone that had gotten him arrested, and he no longer felt so sorry for her. The matter of Guinevere remained quite complicated, so he pushed it aside so that he could focus on the conversation before him.

            “When we manage to defeat the witch,” Merlin grinned, “we’ll come for you.”

            “Hold on,” Gwaine protested, holding up a hand. “Who’s this ‘we’?”

            “I thought we already agreed that you two would be coming?”

            “Nothing of the sort!” Arthur interjected. “You rattled off all that chess-speak like a dolt, is all.”

            “Dolt?” Merlin frowned, temper flaring. “Better a dolt than a prat, I suppose!”

            “Come off it, then!” Arthur retorted, adopting Gwaine’s grammar as he did when he forgot his father’s upbringing. “You’re just making things up. No one knows what you’re on about.”

            Gaius rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh, while Gwaine and Leon looked on. The thief was apparently relishing the drama, fighting off a fit of laughter.

            “ _I’ll have you know_ ,” Merlin enunciated, leaning forward to emphasize his point, but he never got to finish it because Gaius interceded.

            “I’m _so_ glad I matured with age,” he said, raising his hands to heaven as though thanking the gods, “unlike someone I know. At least this young man has an excuse for it.”

            Merlin bristled again, this time at his old friend. “You’re still as dollop-headed as ever,” he fumed. “I’ve been locked away in total isolation for how many years? All I had for all this time was myself. Even Kilgharrah’s mind could not reach me where I was. Now that I’m so close to freedom, so close to _living_ , I need action! Yet still I’m stuck like this,” he gestured angrily at the lamp, “for who knows how much longer? Until the witch is defeated? When will that be, hmm? Meanwhile, you lot can do whatever you like! Not like you’re trapped in one spot or anything, with the threat of an immortal high priestess looming over your heads, oh, _noooo_.”

            He folded his arms and turned his back to them.

            Gaius heaved another sigh. The grin had fallen off of Gwaine’s face in the now uncomfortable atmosphere. Arthur furrowed his brow in thought. Merlin had a point, after all, he supposed. The blond wouldn’t have liked to be in his place, certainly.

            “Have ye no shame?” Gwaine asked abruptly.

            Merlin twitched, indicating he had heard, but did not look at the thief. Everyone else in the clearing did.

            “Gwaine,” Arthur intoned, “what are you doing?”

            “I said,” Gwaine said more loudly, ignoring his friend, “have ye no shame, mate?”

            This time the warlock glared over his shoulder at him, but curiosity burned in his blue eyes.

            “Here ye are, feelin’ right sorry fer yerself,” Gwaine drawled, “goin’ on ‘bout doin’ this and tha’, but ye’ve forgotten the most important thing.”

            “Oh?” Merlin said, apparently trying for a biting tone but failing.

            Gwaine flicked his hair back. “Mate, all ye have t’ do is ask.”

            One of Merlin’s eyebrows went up in a poor imitation of Gaius’, which had lowered as the old man chuckled. Merlin couldn’t seem to help the grin that broke out on his face, and he ducked his head too late to hide it. His shoulders shook under restraint.

            Under normal circumstances, Arthur would have been upset that his friend had again offered their help without consulting him, but the young man had been considering doing it himself. He had no doubt that, had their situations been reversed, Merlin would have stepped forward immediately. He seemed that sort of person.

            After a moment, Merlin turned around, eyes twinkling.

            “Sir Leon,” he said formally, “wilt thou answer my plea for assistance in my time of need?”

            “I shall,” Leon responded, dipping his chin. “Thou shalt have all the backing of my knights, sorcerer.”

            “I thank thee.” Merlin moved slightly to address the thieves. “Gwaine, Arthur, wilt thou answer my plea for assistance in my time of need?”

            “I shall,” Arthur said, slightly embarrassed at the occasion’s call for high speech, which he did not know well. “Thou shall have all the backing of—well, of me,” he finished lamely, but Merlin merely beamed and turned to await Gwaine’s reply.

            “Aye, mate,” he said. “I’ll help.”

            “Gaius,” Merlin grinned. “Care to do the honor of knighting our new recruits?”

            Here Gaius raised his eyebrow again, as though to say he did not have that sort of power. But he seemed to think better of it, lest he foul Merlin’s fragile mood, and nodded solemnly. Only someone of royal blood could officially knight someone, and commoners generally could not become knights in any capacity. But Gaius could appreciate the semantics of a ceremony now.

            “And with what shall I knight them?” Gaius asked pleasantly.

            Merlin finally realized that there were no swords, ceremonious or otherwise. He shrugged. “You could anoint them with my lamp.”

            “What, and burst into flames the moment we pass a torch?” Arthur said.

            “Oh, very well!” Gaius said. “Really, you two are impossible. I’ll use my hand, by God.” Then he crossed himself, silently apologizing for taking the name of the Lord in vain. The bishop composed himself. “Of course,” he said calmly, looking upwards, “this accolade will not be proper. There is no feast or bath or even a proper channel, or—“

            “Get on with it,” Merlin moaned impatiently. “Please,” he added at the irritated glance from Gaius his outburst had received.

            “You’ll have to kneel, the both of you,” Leon said.

            Arthur and Gwaine did, fidgeting uncomfortably.

            Gaius stepped forward. “Gwaine, do you swear to uphold the laws of chivalry for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death take you?”

            “I do,” Gwaine swore.

            “Arthur, do you swear to uphold the laws of chivalry for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death take you?”

            “I…I do.”

The bishop raised his hands to the heavens. “By the power vested in me by God,” he declared, “I now pronounce you knight and knight.” He laid each hand on the thieves’ right shoulders.

“Do we kiss now?” Gwaine asked cheekily, batting his eyelashes at Arthur.

            Arthur rolled his eyes, and Gaius appeared to be repressing a good-natured laugh.

            “Right, that’s done, then,” Merlin said, clapping his hands together. “Shall we to the tavern?”

            “Or we could to my rooms and have tea,” Leon said. “A tavern is hardly the place for a respected man of God, and there’s no telling what the base rabble there would do should they find your lamp, Merlin.”

            At “base rabble” the thieves shared an affronted look, but then shrugged, not finding a good retort to the accusation.

            Leon continued, “And besides, my wife should be glad to see me after I’ve been away for so long, I think.”

            “Yer married?” Gwaine asked, surprised.

            The knight reached under his tunic and pulled out a golden band hanging from a silver chain. “I prefer to keep it close to heart.” He dropped under the red fabric once more.

            Gwaine touched his own chest, where Arthur knew he kept his most prized possession: his father’s wedding ring.

            “I don’t think that’s wise,” Gaius cautioned. “If the witch is in Camelot, she could perchance upon you. Likely she believes you are all dead.”

            Arthur rasped his dry tongue along his lips. “I know we need to form a plan and all,” he said, “but I am still thirsty.”

            “Right,” Merlin said. He’d obviously forgotten it. “Well, er, if we can’t go to Camelot now, we’ll just have to find a stream.”

            Arthur would drink from a stagnant pool at this rate, so he readily agreed. It was a testament to how parched Gwaine was that he did as well. The man rarely drank straight water.

            “The stream is not far from here,” Gaius said, “but it is closer to the lake. We must make our plan as we walk, and then I must take my leave. I have been gone for too long.”

            “Just say you’ve been taking a walk in nature to feel closer to your god,” Merlin said indifferently.

            Gaius’ eyes moved upwards as though silently pleading for patience. “You’re lucky I’m toleration of the Old Religion,” he said, accepting the lamp from Leon as they began to move west. “Really, I could have purged you and all your kind.”

            “Then you’d have to purge yourself,” Merlin said cheerily, unbothered by the prospect.

            “No, because I’d spare converts.”

            “Then I’d convert but worship the Triple Goddess in secret.”

            Gaius released a heavy sigh, shaking his head.

            “Perhaps we should be thinking of a plan?” Leon tentatively suggested.

            “I’ve got one,” Merlin said. “Gaius will be our spy in the palace. Arthur and Gwaine will be our spies in the city. Leon will be the lamp bearer.”

            “That’s…” Leon began to protest, but trailed off, flushing slightly.

            “That’s hardly a plan,” Arthur scoffed.

            “Yeah?” Merlin snubbed him. “Then what’s your brilliant idea?”

            “All right,” the blond said, scowling. “How about Gaius goes back to the palace, finds the witch, and has her arrested?” But even as he said it he knew it would not work, remembering again the murdered guards, blood pooling around their slumped figures in the dark. “No, wait,” he uttered as Merlin opened his mouth to poke holes in the offering. “What if Gaius goes back to the palace and acts as though nothing is wrong, while Leon sneaks to the knights’ quarters and rallies them in secret, and we three,” he gestured to himself, Gwaine, and Merlin, “sneak in through the siege tunnels so you can defeat the witch with your magic? I mean, you said yourself you’re the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth.”

            There was silence for a moment. Merlin stopped walked, apparently deep in thought. Gaius did not seem to notice and kept walking; once he moved about two meters away, Merlin, with a surprised shout, lurched forward as though a rope were tied around his midsection, and nearly fell flat on his face.

            “Gaius!”

            The old bishop stopped and turned, eyebrow raised.

            Gwaine guffawed. Merlin shot him an indignant glare, but then couldn’t help but to join in. Even Arthur and Leon chuckled a bit.

            Gaius didn’t seem to get the joke. “I agree with Arthur,” he said. “It’s best plan I’ve heard so far, and I cannot think of anything better.”

            Merlin sobered at that. “Aren’t you forgetting that if the sorceress touches me, it will be enough to steal my power?”

            “So don’t let ‘er touch ye,” Gwaine said, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

            “Easier said than done,” Merlin grumbled. “That means I have to trust you lot to keep me out of her hands.”

            “That’s th’ spirit,” Gwaine grinned.

            They wended their ways through the trees, falling into silence. Soon enough, the light sound of burbling water could be heard, much to the mortal men’s reliefs. The sun had been rising higher in the sky as they had stood around talking, making the air stiflingly warm. Gwaine and Arthur quickened their paces, and in less than a minute they came across the water.

            “Thank God!” Arthur gasped.

            The thieves immediately threw themselves facedown at the muddy edge of the cold creek, dipping their cupped hands beneath the surface and bringing them to their lips. Leon followed at a more respectable pace and knelt slightly downstream from them.

            Arthur took a long draught, then reared his head to catch his breath noisily. This was one time he didn’t quite mind the coolness of the water. After everything he’d been through the last night alone, he thought he rather deserved something nice.

            Once Leon had finished his drink, Arthur stuck his hands back in the water and gave them a good scrub. His fingers ached from the cold, but it felt nice to rid himself of the grittiness of the cave. It washed away a bit of the terror.

            Gaius set Merlin’s lamp down next to the trio, his joints creaking wearily. He stood up again with a quiet groan. “Well,” he said. “I must leave you here. Surely I have been missed back at Camelot.”

            “Try to keep the witch distracted, old friend,” Merlin said. “Perhaps send as many people out of the castle as will not be noticed.”

            “I will do my best,” Gaius promised. He smiled at the lanky warlock, eyes shining as though he could still hardly believe they were standing before one another again. “And once all this is over, we shall come to the lake and complete you.”

            “I look forward to it.”

            With a courteous nod toward Sir Leon and the thieves, Gaius turned and went back the way they had come. When the old bishop was out of sight, Merlin looked around. “We could stay here for a couple of hours, give Gaius enough time to get back.”

            “We needs must find weapons,” Leon said thoughtfully. “And also something to eat. We shall need our strength.”

            “Aye,” Gwaine agreed lazily. “But after a quick bath, yeah?” He sat up and began to strip, pulling his tunic over his head and letting it drop in the leaves at his side.

            Arthur watched him for a moment, debating whether he wanted to undress and do the same. The thought of it made him all too aware of how sticky he felt. He at least wanted to get the dust out of his boots. With a shrug, he joined his friend.

            Gwaine, naked but for his necklace, plunged into the shallow water, letting out high-pitched yelps from the shock of cold. “C-c-come on, Princess!” he said through chattering teeth. “Th’ w-w-water’s f-f-fine!”

            “I’ll take your word for it,” Arthur said, doing the sensible thing by sitting on the bank and gently splashing himself, starting from the feet. That plan was ruined almost immediately when Gwaine flipped onto his back and violently kicked his legs. Arthur gasped noisily as a waterfall overtook him. “ _Gwaine_!”

            Merlin stood back, laughing heartily. Even Leon couldn’t resist grinning, but the smile quickly faded when Gwaine turned on him.

            “C’mon in, Leon!”

            “No—wait—ahh!” Leon had tried to make a run for it, but Gwaine was too quick, and the knight, still fully clothed, was soaked. “Ahh, damn it to hell!” Leon shuddered, pulling the wet fabric away from his skin.

            Then they all laughed.

            And, God, it felt good to laugh like that, Arthur thought.

{Birthright}

            Once Leon’s clothes had sun dried, and they had eaten their fill of the berries Arthur found on a short excursion into the trees to relieve himself, they headed to the city. Arthur carried Merlin’s lamp tucked under his arm, feeling somewhat protective. If the others found his volunteering for the job strange, no one said anything.

            “At Yuletide, back when I was still a student,” Merlin chattered, “there was a singer by the name of Helen. We had the grandest feast that night to celebrate, for she was quite famous, see, and it took a lot of convincing for her to come so far to sing for us. But, well, turns out the real Helen was murdered along the way and a witch took her form so she could kill the court at Camelot, but luckily I was able to stop her.”

            “Oh?” Arthur raised his eyebrows. “And how’d you do that?”

            “I dropped a chandelier on her.”

            “Of course you did.”

            “What, you don’t believe me?”

            “No, I do,” Arthur said. “Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that all the stories you’ve told us are about you, you supercilious prat.”

            “That’s my word,” Merlin gasped, mortally offended. “All right, then. I shall tell a story that’s not my own. Have you heard of Freya?”

            Arthur glanced over his shoulder to judge Merlin’s sincerity, and finding it satisfactory, shook his head. He hadn’t heard the name.

            Leon piped up from the front, “She’s the lady of the lake.”

            “Right,” Merlin smiled. “Do you know why?”

            “Does she live in a lake?” Gwaine asked dryly.

            Merlin smiled indulgently, then looked toward the tree tops with shiny eyes. “She was my lover, once. The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She was cursed by a witch because Freya had killed her son—self-defense, it was. But that didn’t matter to the witch.

            “The witch made her a Bastet, a terrible creature of the night that hunts men. Freya, she was a kind soul. All she wanted was to go far away, where she could never hurt anyone ever again. But that didn’t happen because she was captured by a witch-hunter, who brought her to the city.

            “I freed her, and hid her in the tunnels beneath Camelot. We were going to run away together. But one night, when she transformed into the Bastet, she found her way out of the tunnels and began to terrorize the city. I tried to stop her, but Constantine—the king—found her first. He didn’t realize what she was, only that she—it—was killing his people.

            “So he did what he had to do.

            “The next morning, I found Freya in the tunnels, dying. I held her. Then I brought her to the lake of Avalon, and gave her a funeral fit for a queen. Freya became the lady of the lake. She still watches over me there.” He gave a sad, almost bitter, laugh, kicking a pinecone.

            The other men were silent, unsure of what to say.

            “Did you,” Arthur searched for considerate words, “Did the king ever find out?”

            “No,” Merlin answered with certainty. “No, Constantine was my friend. He didn’t know what he’d done. To know would have hurt him.”

            Arthur nodded.

            “Well,” Merlin said, adopting a cheery tone. “Enough about me, huh? Let’s hear a story from one of you.”

            “I know!” Gwaine said, striding forward. “So, Sir Leon, how came ye t’ th’ Cave o’ Kilgurrn?”

            “Kilgharrah,” Merlin corrected, smiling. “Indeed, Sir, I’d like to know that as well.”

            The tips of Leon’s ears turned a bit pink. “I can assure you, it wasn’t a desire for gold,” he said.

            “Come on, then, tell us!” Gwaine persisted, grinning at the knight’s discomfort with the subject. Arthur pitied him; once Gwaine sunk his teeth into something he hardly ever let go. “Why’d ye do it? What did tha’ witch say t’ ye?”

            Leon heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his straw-colored curls. “She said that I could…” His voice trailed off into vague mumbling.

            “Sorry, what was that?” Merlin asked.

            “The witch,” Leon repeated, “said that if I went in I could kill a dragon and earn glory.” He kept his gaze studiously averted.

            Merlin’s smile slipped a bit so that it was more of a grimace. “Ah, I see. And…did you?”

            “Did I what?” Leon asked.

            “Kill a dragon?”

            “Oh. No, he was already…well.” Leon scratched his cheek awkwardly. “I was supposed to bring her the lamp, but when I saw the dragon was already dead I went back and told her that she was a liar. She promised me gold instead, but I had no want of that, and said I’d already been born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I suppose I’m lucky she didn’t curse me with spoons.”

            “Why didn’t you go back to Camelot?” Arthur asked. “What was stopping you from leaving in search of a cure?”

            “I was sure she would find someone else to procure the lamp,” Leon said. “I stayed to stop whatever wickedness she had planned.”

            Even Gwaine looked humbled and impressed at the honorability of the knight.

            “I must thank you, then, Sir Leon,” Merlin smiled sincerely. “If it weren’t for you, Camelot would most certainly have fallen. Possibly all of Albion as well.”

            Leon shrugged sheepishly under the praise.

            Arthur feared that the next storyteller would be him, but luckily they spotted the gleaming white turrets of the city wall. There would be no time for another tale, much to his relief. Though he couldn’t blame Merlin for wanting to talk so much—how would Arthur have felt being locked away by himself for half a century?

            “Ah,” Gwaine said, ducking behind a tree. “How’re we goin’ t’ get past that lot?”

            Arthur peeked around his friend and saw that rather than the usual guards posted at the city gates, two full-fledged knights were standing watch. Were they expecting an army?

            Leon raised his eyebrows at them, as though wondering what the problem was. He stepped out before the thieves could stop him. Merlin watched curiously.

            “Halt!” said Sir Galahad as Leon approached. “What is your business at Camelot, traveler?”

            “My business?” Leon repeated. “Traveler? Pah! I’d have thought my own men would recognize me. How long have I been gone, then?”

            “Sir Leon!” they gaped. “Can it be? Is it you?”

            Leon spread his arms and spun once as though to prove it. “What’s the occasion? Ha? Why do you stand at the gate instead of patrolling the wall? Being lazy, I see!”

            “No, Sir!”

            Sir Percival stepped forward. “Sir Leon, you’ve been gone for nearly two months. I’m afraid you’ve been replaced by Sir Owain. He does not seem to trust the daily guards, so we are made to regularly stand watch for the city and patrol the lower towns.”

            “Owain?” Leon scoffed. “Owain replaced me? Why, he couldn’t guard a chicken coop! Stand down, men. No, on second thought, with me. Leave your posts.”

            Sirs Percival and Galahad shared a glance, but followed obediently as Leon led them back toward the spot where Gwaine, Arthur, and Merlin were hiding. Gwaine and Arthur shuffled back, heads swiveling desperately for another spot. No doubt they’d be arrested again. Just what did Leon think he was doing?! This wasn’t part of the plan!

            When Leon arrived, it was to find only Merlin. At the inevitable inquiring look he received, Merlin raised his eyes to the sky. Leon followed his gaze, tilting his head back, and spotted the thieves squatting in the branches above them.

            “They really are part squirrel,” Galahad said wonderingly, seeing them as well.

            Percival and Leon looked thoroughly unimpressed.

            “Honestly, would you come down,” Leon said, exasperated. “We’ve work to do, you know!”

            “Not lookin’ forward to prison, thanks,” Gwaine grinned. “Catch us if ye can.”

            “We’re not going to arrest you!” Leon said.

            “We’re not?” Galahad whispered, frowning in confusion.

            “No! Listen, they’re on our side.”

            “Our side of what?” Percival asked.

            “Are you intending to overthrow Sir Owain? Because I’m sure he would gladly stand down, Sir Leon,” Galahad said. “Everyone will be glad to see you again.”

            “No, no,” Leon said. “Here’s the short of it, men: an evil witch tricked me into a cave not far from here, and cursed me—I’ve been uncursed now, thanks to Merlin here—but that’s the place I’ve been these last weeks; I survived on bat flesh and cave pools. The witch plans to destroy Camelot, and we’ve got to stop her. We need these two to do it.”

            “What, two thieves are going to stop a witch?” Galahad said. “And this fellow here doesn’t look like much—no offense.”

            Merlin grinned. “None taken.” With a flash of golden eyes, the branches holding Gwaine and Arthur snapped, sending both tumbling to the ground with surprised shouts. “We’re wasting time. Shall we onwards?”


	7. Revelations

Chapter 6

Revelations

            _Knock. Knock. Knock._

Princess Guinevere let a partly relieved sigh. “Excuse me,” she said to Elyan, who waved her off as he stared intently at the chess board. He was already winning, but he wanted to be sure his sister suffered ultimate defeat. She straightened her skirts as she crossed her chambers to answer the door. The siblings had been playing behind the partition to block the strongest sunlight that streamed in through the open window. The room was a bit warm, but the occasional breeze whistled through to cool them off.

            “Morgana,” Guinevere greeted, slightly surprised.

            Morgana was smiling sweetly, but the princess instantly picked up on the strain around her emerald eyes. “Hello, Guinevere. How was your morning?”

            “Fine,” she answered. “Please, do come in.”

            “Thank you.”

            Morgana stepped into the room, ignoring Guinevere’s concerned, penetrating look. The Court Sorceress said nothing, her eyes locked on the golden org hovering on the horizon, which could be clearly seen from the west-facing window. Guinevere hesitated in engaging the woman in conversation, but she was bursting with a question:

            “Morgana, I went to see Arthur in his cell. He wasn’t there. Did you have him released?”

            “No. He’s dead.”

            Guinevere froze, shocked. Ripples of goose flesh ran up her arms. “What?” she whispered.

            Morgana did not seem to hear. She turned to the princess, still wearing her faux smile. “Gwen, sweet Gwen, I must tell you something very important. Perhaps you should sit, you don’t look quite well, dear. But really, I have to tell you this, and get it off my chest.”

            “All—all right,” Guinevere said, still wide-eyed. She allowed herself to be led to the bed, and perched rigidly on the edge of the plush feather mattress.

            Morgana did not sit, but paced haltingly. Her brow was furrowed, as though she were trying to decide how to word whatever she was going to say. At last she seemed to figure it out, and turned to the young woman earnestly. She knelt before the princess, skirts splaying like a flower in bloom, and took her shaking hands in her own.

            “When your father Leodegrance was bequeathed the crown on the deathbed of Vortigern, I was furious. Enraged, in fact,” she started. “And I was even angrier that your imbecile brother was next in line for the throne.”

            Gwen made a soft noise in her throat, but did not interrupt or take her hands back.

            “Oh,” Morgana rolled her eyes, upper lip curled in disgust, “how I hated him.” Guinevere didn’t know whether she meant Vortigern, her father, or Elyan. “Glorious was the day that your father was assassinated—a blessing for me.” She stood and began pacing again, making wild gestures with her hands. “I had waited so, so long to acquire the throne for Mordred. It was my son’s _rightful_ place as the last living direct descendant of Constantine II, my father by blood, no matter my illegitimacy.

            “It wasn’t fair, what Vortigern did. Do you understand, Gwen? I _had_ to do all that I’ve done. I _had_ to kill Uther, my last surviving brother. He would have taken the throne back, you see? I _had_ to push _your_ brother—not to kill him, but to unfit him for my son’s rightful place!”

            Guinevere’s breasts heaved as she gasped for breath, resisting the urge to be sick.

            Suddenly Morgana was on her knees again, grasping at the princess’s hands. Guinevere tried to push her off, but the sorceress’s grip was vice-like. “Gwen,” she said. “Gwen, I need your help.”

            “No,” the princess uttered. “No.”

            “You must renounce your claim so that my son, the last direct descendant of Constantine, may assume his rightful place!”

            “Morgana,” Guinevere choked out, fighting back her tears, “you have no son!”

            The raven-haired woman looked stricken for a moment. “No, you’re right,” she said, clasping a hand over her mouth. “No, he is dead. I have lost everything.” Morgana slowly crumpled to the marble floor, weeping. “My son, my son!” She tugged at her hair despairingly.

            The princess’s tears finally fell. She pitied Morgana. Though she could not find it in her heart to forgive the revelation that the sorceress had caused her brother to become simple, she thought she might empathize with her plight. A stolen birthright, a lost child. Any mother might have lost her senses like this.

            As Morgana continued to weep, Guinevere slid off of the bed and placed a comforting hand on the witch’s shoulder. Morgana lashed out and grasped the hand tightly.

            Gwen tried to pull away, but it was to no avail.

            Morgana sat up, her cheeks stained and eyes wet. Her expression was of ferocious hatred. “Yes, I have lost everything,” she spat. “Because of your family! Do I not, then, deserve compensation?!”

            “Ohhh, Morgana,” Guinevere moaned, trying to pry her hand off. “You’re hurting me!”

            “I want your crown,” Morgana said. “It’s mine! It’s _mine_!”

            “Guards!” Guinevere screamed shrilly. “Guards!”

            “They’re dead, too!” the witch snarled. “No one can help you. But,” her features softened suddenly into the kindly Morgana Guinevere had thought she’d known, “but, sweet Gwen, I don’t want to kill you. We can be friends. I’ll take care of you. I’ll even bring Lancelot back for you, if you give me your crown.”

            “Lancelot?” she whispered tearfully. “He’s dead. You can’t bring back the dead, Morgana.”

            “Not yet,” she smiled, stroking Gwen’s cheek to wipe away the wetness. “But I know someone who can. She taught me everything I know. I’ll ask her all about it. Then you’ll have Lancelot, and I—I’ll have my children again. Soon I’ll hold Morgause and Mordred in my arms, just like old times…”

            “Morgana,” Guinevere wept softly, “you should know more than anyone that magic…Magic comes with a price.”

            “Yes,” she nodded eagerly, “yes, it does. You’re so smart, Gwen. Your price for Lancelot is your crown. Give me that, and you’ll marry happily ever after, just like in the stories.”

            Guinevere shook her head. “Morgana, you told me this yourself, after my father died: A life for a life. To give one, you must take away one. Who is going to die so that you may replace them?”

            Morgana looked slightly perturbed at the question, but then her face smoothed over once again. “Gaius can be one,” she said. “And Elyan. Then just one more…I’m sure I can find someone else. Perhaps one of the noblemen.”

            “Morgana! Morgana, you’ve gone mad.” Guinevere buried her face in her free hand and cried. “Please, let me go. Let me go.”

            The Court Sorceress reluctantly released her grip on the princess’s hand. Guinevere snatched it away, tucking her arm around her midsection as she cried, huddling against her bedframe. “Oh, Gwen,” Morgana said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please don’t be frightened of me.” She reached out to comfort her.

            “ _You get away from her_!”

            Guinevere gasped and looked up. She’d forgotten Elyan was still in her rooms. He must have heard most, if not all, of the women’s exchange. A silver glint caught her eye.

            “ _Elyan, no!_ ” she cried.

            But Morgana was prepared. She whipped around, eyes flashing gold, and barked, “Astrice!”

            An invisible force struck Elyan before he’d managed to come close with the dagger raised overhead. He flew back, and with a sickening crunch, hit the far wall. Guinevere shrieked wordlessly and shoved Morgana out of her way, running to her brother’s side as quickly as her heavy skirts would allow.

            “Elyan!” she cried. “Elyan! Elyan!”

            But the young man was already pushing himself up, glaring at an enraged Morgana, who mirrored his actions. “Run, Gwen!” He nudged her toward the servant’s door.

            “No, stop it!” Guinevere pled, trying to stand between them. Elyan would not let her, and pushed her again toward the exit. She fought her way back into position, spreading her arms wide as though to protect him from an oncoming arrow with her own breast.

            Morgana’s lips curled into a cruel smirk. “I should have just killed you,” she said. “I had so many chances. _This_ is how you repay my mercy? Maybe I should have ended _your_ life, not Lancelot’s!” As she spoke, her emerald eyes heated to molten gold.

            “Please, Morgana!” Guinevere said, shaking her head. Her hair had come loose from the immaculate braids Sefa was prided for, dangling dementedly over her drawn face. “Please, leave him alone! I’ll do anything!”

            But Morgana did not heed her. She raised an arm and flung it to one side.

            Guinevere, feet swept out from under her, skidded with the movement as though slipping across an icy pond. She pressed her palms against the floor, trying to slow her momentum, but it seemed nothing but the wall would stop her. She struck it shoulder first, her leg knocking violently into the chess table. The carved pieces toppled and rolled over the edge, raining down onto her figure. The princess, gasping through her terror, curled tightly into herself as though waiting for another blow.

            Another strike was not forthcoming.

            Instead, Guinevere could only watch in horror as Elyan, against his will, raised his dagger to his chest.

            “No,” she whispered, struggling against some invisible weight that held her down. “No…No… _Elyan_!”

            The blade, with a final jerk, disappeared in the fabric of Elyan’s white tunic. He made a terrible choking noise, dark eyes wide. Crimson dribbled forth from his lips.

            Suddenly Gwen could move again. Trembling, she crawled back to him.

            “Elyan…! Elyan…!”

            Her hands fluttered helplessly over his jerking chest. Red blossomed from the decorated leather hilt, spreading across his linen shirt. Elyan opened his mouth, choked again. “Gw—…”

            “No, don’t speak,” she whispered, drawing him into her lap. She wiped away beads of sweat from his brow, tears obscuring her vision. “You’ll be all right,” she said calmly, as though comforting him from a nightmare. “You’ll be all right…Morgana…Morgana!”

            Guinevere turned, and spotted the Court Sorceress standing a few meters away from the scene. Her expression was impassive—no longer the kind beauty, but no longer the mad witch, either.

            “Morgana,” Guinevere said tearfully. “Please, save him. Save my brother!”

            Elyan’s hand clutched at the dagger. The princess, after a lingering, despairing look at the other woman, returned her attention to her older brother. “No, don’t touch that,” she admonished shakily, taking his bloody hand in her own. “It’ll be all right.” Another pleading glance over her shoulder yielded no result.

            “ _Please_!”

            Her voice reverberated harshly.

Elyan’s grip tightened. His choking became prolonged. The princess realized he could not breathe.

“Hold on,” she begged. “Hold on! Hold on!”

Elyan’s eyes rolled back, then closed. The choking stopped. His hand went slack.

“Elyan?”

Guinevere shook him gently, as though he were sleeping.

“Elyan?”

She shook him harder, increasingly violently when she received no response. A sob rocked her body, constricted her lungs so that she could not draw breath. She clasped a hand over her heart, searching for the dagger that had stabbed her as well. Then her lungs expanded, giving her the means to wail mournfully.

Guinevere gripped the hilt of the dagger with which Elyan had been forced to murder himself, and yanked it out in one swift movement. Blood welled up from the wound and dripped from the tip of the blade. It fell with a clatter. She pressed her hand over his chest, hoping against hope that he would start to breathe again.

He didn’t.

She convulsed once, twice—then turned and vomited. It spattered over her silk skirt, but she didn’t care. Guinevere wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, inadvertently smearing her brother’s blood across her face, giving her a barbaric look.

Once she was sure she would not heave again, she returned to her task of mourning. She maneuvered her legs out from under his still form, laying him down gently before prostrating herself over him. Her head fit in the crook of his neck, the way it had when they had been children, first at their mother’s funeral, and then their father’s.

Gwen suddenly realized how alone she was.

“Why?” she moaned pitifully. “Why?”

Morgana did not answer. Instead, she said, “You have until tomorrow to give me your answer, sweet Gwen.”

The nickname was acid to her ears. She let out a disgusted sob, burying her face in her brother’s shirt, fisting the material in her hands. As though refusing to let go would keep him here, with her.

Morgana’s unwavering footsteps receded, and the door opened and closed again.

Guinevere did not move, only sobbed with abandon.

She did not know how long she stayed like that. She felt ashamed when her tears ran dry, knowing that Elyan deserved far more to be shed. He had been her only constant: when everyone else had gone, he had stayed.

Now even he had left her.

A door suddenly opened—the servant’s entrance. She waited for Sefa’s shocked, terrified shriek, but none came.

“Oh, my dear God, no!” was the soft, familiar gasp. She’d heard the same tone, the same phrase, when Elyan had been found lying at the base of the stairs, bleeding from a gash on his head.

The utter relief of hearing a friendly voice was enough to elicit another wail from the princess. She lifted her head, face contorted as she turned toward him.

“Thank you, God,” Gaius whispered, pale face drawn grimly, his gnarled hand coming down from his rabbiting heart. “Gwen, my poor girl! Let me see, where are you hurt?”

“Elyan,” she sobbed, allowing Gaius to help her into a sitting position. “Gaius, please, Elyan!”

He immediately knew that there was no helping the young man. Elyan had obviously been dead for some time—his lips were blue, his eyes sunken in their sockets, and the wound to the chest was no longer pumping his lifeblood. His heart fell.

“I am so sorry, my boy,” he said, crossing himself. “May the heavenly host receive you.”

“No!” Guinevere shook her head, grasping his sleeve. She felt the dried blood on her skin crack. “You have to do something, Gaius!”

Gaius drew her into his embrace. “I am so sorry, Gwen. There is nothing I can do for him.”

“Oh, please…Please…”

The bishop gave a weary sigh, looking about at the room. There was hardly any sign of a struggle, except for the toppled chess pieces. Only the black knight remained upright.

“Guinevere,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, and she would not meet his gaze. “Princess, look at me,” he ordered sternly. She did, and he saw her anguish. “We must flee. You are in danger.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “I’ll stay with Elyan.”

“No!” He gave her a single, firm shake. “No, you must come with me. There is no sense in the both of you dying! God willing, I will take you to a safe place.”

“God willing?” she repeated. “What God? There is no God.”

Gaius’ mouth thinned. “Please, my girl, I do not want to lose you, too. I understand what it’s like to be surrounded by death, and I am sorry I came too late, but trust me when I tell you that you will be all right. You must flee.”

“I can’t leave him like this,” she protested.

“You can,” Gaius said. “I promise that we shall have a proper burial for him, but first you must survive. You can’t send him off if you’re dead.”

“But—“

“Think of your father, girl!” Gaius said fiercely. “Think of your mother! What would they say were they here? Would they want you to stay and die? Would Elyan want you to stay and mourn him when you could escape the same fate?”

“No,” she said. “No.”

“No, what?”

“No, they would not want that,” she answered. At once, Guinevere began to work her feet beneath her.

Gaius nodded approvingly and helped her up. She swayed slightly, but managed to stay upright without much help. “This way,” he said, leading her into the servant’s passage. “We will go where the witch cannot find us.”

            Guinevere watched over her shoulder as long as she could see Elyan’s still form.

{Birthright}

            “This way,” Leon whispered, motioning to the right.

            They ducked down another dark, damp corridor, the blue orb lighting the way floating above their heads and casting strange shadows. The group had formed a solid plan while standing outside the gates, and fully expected to be able to fulfill it. Under the city, the thieves, Sirs Leon and Percival, and Merlin would sneak toward the citadel; above, Sir Galahad, who had gladly loaned his weapon to his senior knight, would rally the knights under orders of Leon and meet them in the council room, where the nobles would surely be congregated to discuss their daily matters. The noblemen, who each controlled a faction of the army, would call the men to arms once they heard of the witch’s presence. With that sort of might, Merlin would easily defeat his adversary.

            But, despite Leon’s assurances that the plan would work, Merlin insisted on having a backup. He wouldn’t shut up about it because he had a bloody ‘feeling.’

            “All right,” Merlin whispered, his hushed voice bouncing along the corridor. “If this doesn’t work, here’s what you all should do: find Constantine II’s sword, and use it to kill the witch.”

            “Why not just a regular sword?” Arthur hissed back.

            “You can’t kill a witch with a regular sword,” Merlin rolled his eyes. “It’s got to be forged in a dragon’s breath. Constantine’s is the only one I know of. Kilgharrah and I made it ourselves.”

            “Probably bloody useless, then,” Arthur muttered. Probably by coincidence, Merlin’s eyes flashed beneath his lashes, and Arthur tripped over thin air just a moment later. “ _Ouch._ ”

            “Shh!”

            “Me father told me once,” Gwaine said, pulling Arthur back to his feet, “that out in the woods there’s a magical sword thrust through a stone. Probably a different one, yeah?”

            “No,” Leon said, “I’d heard of that, too. They say it is Constantine’s sword. On his deathbed he commanded that it be planted in a stone, and that only he who was worthy to wield it would be able to pull it free.”

            “Brilliant,” Merlin grumbled. “ _Now_ you tell me. We could have made a stop on the way here.”

            “Well, we didn’t know we would need it, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur shot back at him irritably.

            Merlin opened his mouth to retort, but finding no rebuttal closed it again, glowering at the floor.

            “We can’t talk anymore,” Leon said softly, slowing his steps. “We’re here. Sir Percival, guard.”

            The burly knight, who had been following them silently as a cat, nodded seriously, drawing his sword. The senior knight kept his hand on the pommel of his borrowed weapon and slunk up the short stone steps toward a dark door. It opened inwards on well-oiled hinges, revealing a deep red tapestry concealing the secret exit.

            They all remained deathly still and quiet, scarcely daring to breathe.

            On the other side of the wall of fabric, they could hear nothing. The room seemed empty.

            Leon slowly pushed the tapestry aside and peered out. He just as quickly ducked back inside, eyes wide and brow furrowed. “We’re too late,” he said. “Percy, with me.”

            Sir Percival stoically pushed past the commoners and joined his commander, and they entered together. Gwaine and Arthur shared a look as Merlin moved to follow them. He stopped short a few feet away and turned back, eyebrow raised in an unimpressive imitation of Gaius. “Well?” he mouthed.

            Arthur’s legs moved before he consciously decided to do so. A foreboding chill caused gooseflesh to form on his arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He shouldered the heavy curtain aside with Gwaine at his heels, following Merlin.

            His jaw dropped.

            “My God!” he whispered, horrified.

            All the noblemen were dead, slaughtered like the two guards. Dozens of wide, glassy pairs of eyes stared forevermore at the last image of their murderer. Blood had sprayed in every direction, heads had rolled away from their bodies, half-opened scrolls absorbing spilt ink and blood alike on the table. Chairs were askew and toppled, some lying on top of men as though they had been used as shields.

            And the _smell_.

            They had obviously been dead for at least a few hours. A day at the most.

            Leon and Percival were crossing the room with purpose, occasionally kneeling amongst the dead to place their blades over the mouths and noses of their victims whose heads were intact. But there were no survivors.

            Merlin was frowning at the scene. “It’s as I feared,” he said. The warlock turned back to the hidden. “Quickly!” he barked. “We must flee. There is nothing we can do here.”

            For once Arthur was quick to agree with the soul from the lamp. “Leon! Percival!” he waved to get their attention, gesturing to the door.

            “Aye, retreat!” Gwaine said urgently.

            “Oh,” said a gleeful voice, “but you just got here!”

            Horrified, the men’s heads whipped in the witch’s direction. She had stepped out from behind another tapestry, painted red lips smiling sweetly. Her long black hair was free-flowing down her back, and the red dress she wore was a little too revealing to be called modest.

            Arthur’s face twisted in confusion. The witch’s voice was the same, but her appearance most definitely was not.

            Merlin stepped forward, glaring angrily. “Nimueh,” he said.

            The woman’s smile widened as she cocked her head. “Well, you weren’t expecting Morgana, were you? She can hardly stand upright nowadays. Lack of sleep, you see. Mandrake roots will do that.”

            “Hmm, to be honest, Nimueh,” Merlin said, “I really wasn’t expecting Morgana. She’s only your lackey, isn’t she? You twisted her mind and soul, made her believe all sorts of lies. I know it was you who gave her the binding spell. But her task wasn’t to take my power for herself, but to give it to you. What did you promise her? Her children?”

            “A mother would do anything for her children,” Nimueh shrugged. “Something someone like you could never understand.”

            “Nor you,” Merlin answered. “There was a time you might have borne children, but you wasted those years with your thirst for revenge.”

            “Hold on,” Gwaine piped up. “Are you the same…old witch from before that, er…”

            “Gwaine, shut _up!_ ” Arthur hissed. He had been slowly edging toward the tapestry, hoping to make a run for it. He already knew that as long as he had the lamp, Merlin would be forced to follow. He had been sure Gwaine would have been on his heels, but it seemed he was distracted by another pretty face.

            “Yes,” she beamed at him. “I am.” Her smile turned suddenly cruel as she thrust her outstretch palms forward.

            All but Merlin were flung backwards, crashing heavily against the far wall, where they instantly became stuck like a fly to honey. Merlin seemed surprised, but the confusion etched on his face resolved itself when he glanced down and saw that Arthur had dropped his lamp.

            “I’m so glad you all survived,” Nimueh exclaimed, one leveled arm holding them in place. Her eyes glinted gold, flashing brighter still in the sunlight streaming in through the window. It made the horrible scene seem all the more ghastly. “And you’ve brought my prize straight to me, just as you promised. Chivalry isn’t dead, after all.”

            “Nimueh,” Merlin said, “think of what you’re doing. What will this solve?”

            “My anger,” she answered sharply, scowling at him.

            “You’ve held onto it for far too long,” Merlin insisted. “Half a century of hatred! If you had turned that passion to tasks other than revenge, what could you have accomplished?”

            “And think, Emrys,” she said mockingly, “what I could have accomplished with my sisters if your precious Constantine hadn’t murdered them in cold blood!”

            “It’s too late to change the past,” Merlin said. “Your sisters are dead, and so is Constantine. There is no one left to take revenge on.”

            Her piercing eyes narrowed. “No?” she sneered. “What of Constantine’s pet sorcerer?” With an abrupt shriek, she flung her arm toward the soul.

            Merlin’s figure disappeared in the blink of an eye, and instantly cropped up a few feet away. Arthur realized that, being tethered to the lamp, Merlin was restricted in his movements. He tried to move, but found himself stuck fast, just like the other three men beside him.

            The warlock’s normally expressive face had turned impassive. He raised his own hand, aiming for Nimueh. “Acwele egesgríme!”

            She easily deflected the magic with a fluid motion of her hand. “Did you really think that would work? You’re out of practice, Emrys.”

            Merlin did not dignify her with a response.

            “Blæcern,” she said.

            The warlock simply pointed at his lamp, stopping it from flying into the witch’s reaching hands. Her premature victorious grin faded. Nimueh clenched her hands into fists. The lamp jerked haltingly toward her, but Merlin did not react, and the lamp resettled into its original position.

            “You can’t win, Emrys.”

            “Don’t be so sure, Nimueh.”

            “Þréaweorc!”

            Merlin staggered back with a sharp shout. He nearly retracted the hand that kept his lamp, but at the last moment reasserted himself, face contorted with pain. “Dark…magic…indeed,” he said through gritted teeth.

            The lamp was slowly progressing toward the gleeful witch. Her lips curled cruelly, eyes glinting demonically. Her long-nailed fingers grasped greedily.

            “No!” Arthur said. “Merlin, you idiot! Fight her!”

            “Aye,” Gwaine cut in. “We believe in ye, mate!”

            “Merlin!” Leon cheered.

            The encouragement seemed to work better than Arthur’s insult. The warlock, though he seemed to be growing dimmer by the second, lifted both arms and magically dragged his artifact back. Nimueh growled, mirroring his actions.

            “He’s not going to make it,” Leon realized with dismay.

            As the lamp moved farther, Merlin began to stagger forward as well.

            “ _Þréaweorc_!” Nimueh screamed again.

            With a head-clutching cry of agony, the warlock vanished.

            “ _Merlin_!” Arthur screamed.

            “Bloody hell!” Gwaine said beside him, sounding truly frightened.

            A moment later Arthur saw why.

            The lamp had finished its journey into her hands, and Nimueh was cackling victoriously. Golden light emanated from the receptacle, reflected in her own eyes. “It’s mine! Finally mine!” she howled. The stained glass windows shattered noisily under a forceful gust of wind. The sky outside darkened, rumbling ominously.

            “Bloody hell, bloody hell,” Gwaine was chanting.

            Nimueh raised the lamp over her head, laughing. Merlin was nowhere to be seen, but Arthur instantly surmised that he trapped again. But he soon forgot that as the lamp’s brilliant shine magnified a hundred-fold, blinding him.

            He felt someone tugging his arm, heard a familiar voice shouting in his ear. The blond dumbly allowed himself to be dragged through the secret door of the siege tunnel behind the tapestry. He stumbled along the dark corridor behind Gwaine, chased by the horrible witch’s mad cackling.

            They had failed.

            Ashamed, Arthur and the others ran. They didn’t dare stop until they were out of the city and hidden in the forest, not far from the place they had made that dreadful plan. There they fell and desperately tried to catch their breaths.

            “I’ve…” Leon panted miserably, a hand over his face, “I’ve abandoned my men.”

            “We abandoned Merlin,” Arthur groaned.

            “Aye,” Gwaine said. “We’ve got to do summat, mates.”

            “What _can_ we do?” Arthur said. “Mortal men cannot win against magic.”

            “Yer jus’ givin’ up?” Gwaine asked him incredulously. “Merlin’s a good man, Arthur! We cannae jus’ leave ‘im t’ that—that blasted witch!”

            “I know that!” Arthur retorted meanly. “We need to, I don’t know, regroup! We have to tell Gaius what’s happened.”

            “I think everyone already knows summat’s happened,” Gwaine said in ire, gesturing toward the darkened sky with his chin. “‘Twas bright an’ cheery but half a minute ago.”

            “Now’s not the time to argue,” Leon interrupted, face still hidden. “The fact of the matter is, we are probably the only ones who will be able to stand against Nimueh, magic or not. There is no sense in not trying.”

            Arthur furrowed his brow, trying to remember something Merlin had told them before they had gone in, and everything had gone to hell.

            Percival was the first to stand, brushing off his breeches. “The sword,” he said, voice low. “We must find the sword in the stone.”

            “Aye,” Gwaine leapt up. “The sword!”

            Arthur sat up slowly, eyebrows rising toward his sweat-matted hairline. “The sword forged in a dragon’s breath.”

            _That_ was what Merlin had said.

            And Arthur would do anything in his power to make up for breaking his word to keep Merlin safe. He owed that much.

            “Then what are we waiting for?” he said, heart lightening with the sense of purpose. “We’ve a sword to find!”

{Birthright}

            Nimueh knew that the cowards had run, but it was no matter. Soon she would be immortal, with all the power of Emrys. Albion would fall. All would kneel to her, sovereign of the world. And with that sort of magic, who need bend to the rules? She could revive Aithusa the dragon, summon any creature at her will. Her sisters would live once more!

            All she needed now was to complete the binding spell, and Emrys’ soul would merge with her own. He was at her mercy.

            The ex-high priestess crooned, caressing the lamp. It was hers. Finally!

            “Heofonfýr.”

            Pain, abrupt and startling, lanced through Nimueh’s core. With a soft gasp, the lamp from her hands, clattering against the marble floor. Her body began to tremble. She recognized the voice that had called the heavenly fire.

            Morgana stepped around her, green skirts swishing, and picked up the lamp. Her dark curls hung like a curtain over her face, obscuring it from Nimueh’s view.

            “We…” she croaked out, betrayed, “We had a…deal…”

            The Court Sorceress turned her head enough that Nimueh could see her smirk.

            Nimueh, quickly losing feeling throughout her cold limbs, fell to her knees. She stared up at her, uncomprehending. “Why?” she uttered. Her skin began to sag as her rejuvenation spell ebbed away. “I thought…we had an agreement…Morgana…You were going…to visit your children’s graves today…”

            “The plan has changed,” Morgana replied coldly. She ran a pale hand across the smooth golden surface of the oil lantern. “With Emrys in my grasp, I can bring back my children myself.”

            “I’ve told you,” wheezed Nimueh. Her face was withering with each passing moment, displaying her true ancientness. “It won’t work. To bring back a life…a life must be taken.”

            “Yes,” Morgana said, turning her face away again as though to look out of the dark window. The tapestries fluttered like birds’ wings in the wind.

            Nimueh sank lower against the floor, her strength fleeing her form. Her wide, pale eyes were locked desperately on the lamp in Morgana’s hands. She reached out, shaking violently. Her hand, as she watched, grew knobby and gnarled, twisted by arthritis. “The lamp…” she whispered hoarsely. “My power…”

            “Your sacrifice will not be in vain, dear Nimueh,” Morgana said.

            “No…No…The lamp…!”

            With both hands, Morgana raised the lamp that housed the soul of Emrys, the most powerful warlock to walk the earth. Her eyes matched the intensity of the golden glow. The howling wind, frenzied with tumultuous power, roared throughout the council room, snatching at the witches’ hair and robes. A tapestry ripped free from its hanger, twisting midair to bypass Morgana and audibly collide with the table. Scrolls flew about maniacally, helplessly caught. The dead noblemen stared on, horrified.

            Morgana’s incantation, barely heard over the chaos, rose in pitch and volume as she continued on. Nimueh, toothless mouth open in a silent scream, clutched at Morgana’s skirts. The frenzy reached its pinnacle with the final word of the spell: “ _Mordred_.”

            Nimueh at last succumbed to death, collapsing into a bony heap.

            It was over.


	8. The Sword in the Stone

Chapter 7

The Sword in the Stone

            The beauty of the place might have impressed Guinevere had she been in any state of mind to appreciate it. But her life had been usurped in the span of three days—Lancelot’s death, the disappearances of the good thieves Arthur and Gwaine, the revelations supplied by Morgana, and Elyan’s needless death.

            It was all too much.

            “You should try and get some rest, my dear,” Gaius said kindly. “I will make a fire. It will be cold tonight.”

            Guinevere didn’t much care. She hadn’t felt anything at all since they had made it out of the castle through the siege tunnels. Not long afterwards, the sky had turned dark and stormy, the wind bitingly fierce. The princess approved of that—for once the weather seemed to reflect her mood.

            While Gaius pottered about collecting kindling and dry sticks, sure to never go too far, Guinevere stared vacantly out at the lake. The surface was smooth and glassy, reflecting the snow-capped mountains in the distance and the almost black sky, and seemed unaffected by the harsh blows of wind. The trees surrounding the lake offered shelter from the worst of it. The clouds had not yet begun to rain. Gaius seemed to trust that they would not, since he had decided to build a fire.

            After a moment, she glanced down at her dress.

            It was once one of her favorites—soft pink, with pretty little embroidered flowers along the bodice and sleeves. But now it was ruined, like her life. Bloodstains, now brown and dry, streaked her sleeves, her skirts, even her matching slippers. Her right hip was covered in vomit, and, if she focused, she could see that there was also a bit of vomit clinging to the hair that had come out of their braids.

            She had half a mind to do something about her state, but could not, in the end, bring herself to move.

            “There,” Gaius grunted. He had never been a man of many words, but Guinevere had noticed that whenever anything terrible happened, his mouth seemed to have a mind of its own. “Now, I’ll just arrange these nice and proper,” he said as he dropped his armful of sticks, “and then we’ll have a fire.”

            The princess knew she should at least offer her help. The words would not come.

            “And then,” Gaius paused in his ministrations and looked at her. A small smile touched his lips. “And then we’ll see what an old man can do about that braid of yours. I’m afraid I don’t know much about that sort of thing, but I think I may know how to tie a ribbon just so.”

            He returned to his task of setting up the fire. Guinevere drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, resting her cheek against her knee so that she could watch him. He didn’t seem to mind the audience, merely continued to build it up.

            “Should you not start with kindling?” she asked curiously. “Aren’t you afraid it will rain?”

            Gaius chuckled. “Under normal circumstances, I would,” he said. “But we have no flint, and I doubt that the sky will pour here. The lady of the lake is very hospitable to refugees.”

            The princess raised an eyebrow, but did not pursue the subject.

            At last, the bishop sat back on his heels, looking pleased with his work. “Forbærne,” he said. His eyes flashed, and the wood pile instantly burst into orange flames.

            Guinevere started, surprised. “You know magic?”

            “Oh, I used to be a sorcerer’s apprentice,” Gaius said amiably. “But I turned away from it when Vortigern took over. He didn’t take kindly to magic, you see. Luckily your father was more lenient, or it might have been banned eventually. Besides, I realized that my true calling was to God.” The old man crossed himself.

            Guinevere lowered her gaze. She had prayed only that morning, but now the action felt empty and useless. She had asked God to watch over Elyan, and He had failed her.

            The corners of her lips turned down, and she averted her face so Gaius would not see.

            “What are we going to do, Gaius?” She sniffled plaintively. “Where do we go? We can’t just stay here.”

            “No, we can’t,” Gaius agreed kindly. “I’m afraid that there’s not much you or I can do. An old friend of mine might be doing something just this moment. I rather think that he is the cause of this storm.”

            “Why would he cause such a great storm?”

            “I don’t think he means to do it,” Gaius chuckled. “His magic reacts to his mood. Or, well, I don’t think that’s quite right, either. Merlin _is_ magic itself.”

            “How can someone be magic?” Guinevere frowned, turning back.

            “God knows,” Gaius answered simply and firmly.

            _So you don’t,_ the princess thought. She was half surprised at the bitterness in her inner voice’s tone, and was glad she hadn’t said it aloud. Instead she said, “How will we know if your friend has done something?”

            Gaius sat back thoughtfully, warming his hands over the licking flames of the fire. “The storm will ebb, first. Then he will come here.”

            “I see.”

            The princess returned to her ruminations in silence, and Gaius seemed content to sit peacefully. After a moment, he began to rummage through the leather medicine pouch he often carried with him, and came out with a length of twine.

            “Not the prettiest,” he smiled apologetically, “but it will do, won’t it?”

            Guinevere offered him a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, and allowed the bishop to undo the disastrous braid down her back. Her eyes slipped closed, and she imagined that it was not Gaius with her, but her father playing with her hair during a long council meeting when she had been much younger. Back then, Elyan, four years her senior, had been an active part of the discussion on grain storage. Later he had confessed to her that he’d wanted to die of boredom.

            The memory was salt in an open wound, but she mastered her emotions. She was the future queen of Camelot, for God’s sake.

            A heavy sigh escaped her, but the tension remained.

            Guinevere, too, wanted to die, but of an entirely different emotion.

{Birthright}

            “There’s not much else to tell!” Leon insisted, shoving a branch out of his way. The wood snapped, leaving the branch dangling from the break. “It’s not like my father gave me a map!”

            “Nay,” Gwaine muttered irritably, kicking a stone. “Only that there’s a bloody rock in th’ bloody woods with a bloody stick pokin’ out o’ it, eh!”

            “I thought it was a bedtime story until last afternoon.”

            A huff escaped Arthur’s lips, and he swiped his sweaty bangs back from his forehead. It was hot despite the bad storm brewing, they had been walking for hours, and no one had thought to bring anything to drink—not that they had anything to carry it in. His ears rang from Gwaine and Leon’s constant bickering, and he wondered whether Sir Percival, who had been trudging along with them, felt the same headache forming.

            Arthur wasn’t much for bedtime stories, but he did know that in tales finding what they were looking for was always much easier.

            “Wait,” Leon said suddenly. “I think my father said something about it being hidden in a valley surrounded by trees.”

            “Oh, a _valley_ ,” Gwaine repeated patronizingly. “Not a lot o’ those in th’ hilly forest o’ Camelot! Pah, what does yer father know?”

            “Oi,” Leon growled threateningly. “I’ll have you know that Sir Bedivere was King Constantine II _and_ King Constans’ most loyal and valued knight.”

            “Fat lot o’ good that did them,” was his arid response.

            “You—!”

            “Enough,” Percival muttered, but the sharp word was sufficient to silence the thief and the knight. They shot one another a glowering look, but pressed on through the thick, dark trees.

            Without the distraction, Arthur could only return to self-pity.

            The fact that the old crone Nimueh had won was his fault. If Arthur had not dropped Merlin’s lamp, they would not have been in the terrible business of trekking through the woods looking for a lost sword that Merlin probably could have found with his magic.

Even better, he could have refused to help the witch in the first place. That might have resulted in death by either magic or a hanging, but the alternative was quicker than dying a starving hermit. They most certainly could not return to Camelot while the witch reigned. That was plain suicide.

Poor Merlin never stood a chance in Arthur’s hands.

But Arthur intended to fix it. All one really needed was to find a sword forged in dragon’s breath, which was easier, more likely, to find than a cursed soul in a lamp—and he’d already done that. The thief was turning into a right quest-master at this rate.

“Listen,” Percival said quite suddenly, breaking Arthur from his thoughts.

Everyone stood still, eyebrows raised as they concentrated.

Leon was the first to understand, turning to one side. “Water,” he uttered.

Gwaine and Arthur looked in that direction, but saw nothing but trees. They could faintly hear the sound of a babbling stream, but were unable to pinpoint it as well as Leon had because they were inexperienced and out of their depth.

“I like th’ sound o’ that,” Gwaine said, licking his chapped lips.

As though a cue were given, the group started off toward the stream. It cut through a gentle slope, running lazily around obstacles.

Relief flooded Arthur as he knelt beside the water and dipped his cupped hands into the coolness. He drank deeply, as did the others. It cleared his mind.

“Well,” said Leon, once he had drunk his fill. “Since this goes down, I think we ought to follow the water for now.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Arthur said, standing. He caught a flash out of the corner of his eye and paused, but saw nothing when he turned his head in that direction.

Frowning, he squatted again, and the light winked at him again.

He stood, and glimpsed the flash again.

Arthur lowered himself slowly until he was half-crouched, keeping the silver light in his sights.

“Mate, if ye have t’ go, just step behind a tree,” Gwaine said.

The blond looked up and realized the other three were watching him curiously. He shook his head and pointed. “You don’t see that light? Come here.”

Gwaine stepped beside him and mimicked his position. His skeptical expression morphed into pleasant surprise. “An’ what do we know of,” he grinned, “that’s shiny and made of metal?”

“Could it be?” Leon breathed.

He immediately began to hurry downhill, hardly watching where he was going. A branch he pushed out of his way whipped back and struck Arthur fully against the chest with a solid _thwack_. He winced and rubbed the new bruise, following then at a safer distance.

The senior knight stopped at the edge of a clearing.

The others caught up and stepped around him to take a look, and halted as well, eyes locked on the sight below them.

The stream had veered off to the left, avoiding, somehow, the sharp dip of a small valley. The outer edge of it was surrounded by tall trees, casting shadows like a sundial. But none of that was of interest. Instead, the thieves and knights were focused on the boulder in the center of the valley, out of which stuck a gleaming, almost ethereal sword. The dark clouds above them seemed lighter.

“Mother of God,” Leon whispered. He stepped forward, as though entranced, and approached it.

Arthur, Gwaine, and Percival followed.

As they neared, Arthur noticed that the sword, for having been abandoned for so long, showed no sign of weathering. It looked quite polished and rust-free, the ruby embedded in the pommel winking.

Sirs Leon and Percival knelt reverently, the bed of leaves crunching beneath him.

“King Constantine’s sword,” Percival rumbled, awestruck.

“There’s writing,” Leon said. He gently brushed away a layer of leaves and dirt, revealing runes expertly inscribed at the base of the stone.

“What’s it say?” Arthur leaned forward eagerly. He squinted, hardly able to make out the lines in the dim lighting.

Leon traced his finger along the words as he read, “Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone is rightwise king born of Albion.”

Gwaine let out a low whistle. “‘Rightwise king.’ Fancy that.”

“Go on,” Arthur urged Leon. “Pull it out, then!”

The tension mounted as the knight stepped up onto the stone so that he could get a good grip on the hilt. Arthur’s heart was beating in his throat; soon they would able to kill the witch and bring Merlin back!

Leon jerked upwards, but the sword did not move a centimeter. The knight readjusted his hand and added his other for good measure, then tried again, bracing his legs for extra support and strength. Still nothing happened.

“It’s stuck fast,” he strained, face reddening with the effort.

Then he let go with a gasp, nearly falling backwards.

“Sir Percival,” he motioned, “you give it a go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Percival managed to balance his large bulk on the rock, taking Leon’s place. He placed both hands on the pommel, then slowly pulled. The muscles in his arms bulged, a deep frown caused a crevice between his brows.

“To hell with this!” Leon said. He stepped up beside Percival and placed his hands under the hilt, pushing upwards to add his strength.

Still the sword did not move.

Gwaine, impatient, joined Leon from the other side.

For a moment Arthur worried that they would break the sword in half, but they all released it, panting for breath.

“Hold on,” Gwaine said. “I’ve got an idea.”

Percival and Leon stood back beside Arthur and watched as the thief spat on both of his palms and rubbed them together. Then, after cracking his knuckles, he stepped up and grasped the hilt. He proceeded to throw his weight back and forth, apparently intending to wiggle the weapon loose.

“You look like an idiot,” Arthur said, grimacing at the display.

Gwaine promptly stopped and glowered at his friend, one hand still gripping the sword. “Yeah? Then let’s see you try, Princess.”

“Obviously it won’t work,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “We’ll have to find someone who could be the rightful king, like the prophecy says.”

“Because we know royalty,” Gwaine replied dryly, jumping down. He gestured grandly to the sword in the stone, smiling patronizingly. “Jus’ fer the hell of it. I insist.”

“Might as well, Arthur,” Leon said wearily. He sank down to the ground. “Camelot’s done for, I suppose.”

Percival averted his gaze as though embarrassed his see his superior in such a state, but said nothing.

Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose. They’d come so far, only to fail. He didn’t want to try his hand at pulling the sword; he already knew it would be no use. But Gwaine was looking at him expectantly, Leon was staring dejectedly at his hands, and Percival seemed to be contemplating something quite serious, perhaps the downfall of Albion. Arthur had nothing to do. Expending some nervous energy might do him some good.

So he wiped his hands on his trousers and stepped up, slapping away Gwaine’s hand when he tried to help him as though he were a lady. The sword, he thought as he looked down at it, really was quite beautiful and tasteful. He imagined that if he were a prince or a king, he’d have liked to have one like it.

He touched the cool gold, and felt a delightful shiver run up his arm and tingle down his spine. The pommel seemed to be made for his hand—it was the perfect length and girth, unlike all the other swords he’d held in his life, the tarnished or broken ones cast aside by noblemen that he and Gwaine found sometimes and took for the fun of it.

Arthur shook his head and took a calming breath, quashing the hope that had begun to build up. His mouth tightened into a thin, serious line as he closed his eyes.

He gave the sword a half-hearted tug, knowing nothing would happen—and promptly fell backwards after a split second of weightlessness. The breath whooshed out of him as he landed square on his back, and his eyes snapped open in astonishment. The sword _thwumped_ soundly in the leaves beside him, his hand still attached to it.

The scene froze for what felt like eternity.

Stunned, Arthur turned his head and stared wide-eyed at the sword, which had come out of the stone like a knife from butter. The blade was undamaged, and now that it was naked Arthur saw that there were runes etched into the metal as well. “ _Excalibur_ ,” he sounded out quietly as he sat up.

He looked up from the sword to see his friends staring back, slack-jawed.

A cheeky smirk brought Gwaine back to life. “All hail Arthur, king of the Britons.”

“No,” Arthur said automatically. “No, this is—I don’t—the sword…”

“In the cave,” Leon said, “in the cave, Merlin called you…He called you Constantine.”

“He was mistaken!”

“And then…if Uther is your father…”

“Yes, but my father was no prince,” Arthur insisted desperately. He started forward and thrust the sword toward Leon. “Take it. It’s yours! I’m not the heir.”

“Your majesty, I cannot,” Leon refused, flustered.

“No! No, I’m Arthur. I’m a thief, a low, common, base thief!”

He looked to Gwaine for help, but none was forthcoming because the older man merely looked at him strangely. At the sound of crunching leaves, Arthur whipped back to the knights, only, to his mortification, to find that they were kneeling at his feet.

“Stop that!” he cried.

Arthur threw _Excalibur_ down, as though ridding himself of it would somehow reverse the damage. His identity had been shattered.

“I am not a king!”

“Of course yer not,” Gwaine drawled at last.

Relief flooded Arthur. Thank God for Gwaine!

“But don’t worry,” he continued. “Queens can still assume the throne.”

“ _Gwaine_!” Arthur moaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, God. This cannot be happening.”

“But it is, Arthur,” said Percival’s quiet voice. He put a large, comforting hand on the thief’s shoulder. “This is your birthright. It was meant to be. And even if you don’t want to be king, shouldn’t you at least play the role for now? For the warlock?”

“Aye,” Gwaine said. “That’s why we came ‘ere. For Merlin.”

“Right,” Leon said, standing. “We can’t give up now. We’ve come so far. This sword will defeat the witch. You must wield it.”

“I am no fighter,” Arthur said. “How could I wield a sword?”

Leon scrutinized him for a moment. “Pick up your sword, Arthur.”

“But…”

“Your sword, Arthur.”

Arthur scoffed, blinking rapidly until his eyes stopped burning. Then he cleared his throat and bent to retrieve _Excalibur_ from where it had landed. He lifted his chin and glared defiantly at Leon, who pointed toward one of the trees.

“Hold your sword straight out and run forward until that tree stops you.”

“Sorry?” Arthur frowned, confused.

Leon raised his eyebrow. “That’s how you shall defeat the witch. Run her through the heart.”

Arthur let out a short, frustrated growl. “And how I will get close enough to do that?” he demanded. “You saw how easily she swatted us aside! I cannot compete with magic.”

“Which is why,” Leon said, holding up a finger, “we will distract her. You will attack from behind.”

“Isn’t that against the knight code or something?” Arthur muttered.

“You’re not a knight, sire.”

Gwaine laughed at that.

Arthur held the sword out again. “Then let Gwaine do it.”

“Nay,” Gwaine shook his head, flicking his hair. “It’s yer birthright, not mine.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“An’ I didn’t ask fer me dad to die in war an’ leave ‘is family destitute, mate,” Gwaine shrugged. “But it happened, yeah? Be glad yer movin’ _up_ in society, Princess.”

Arthur swallowed thickly, lowering his gaze to the sword. The weight of it felt right, actually, but he most definitely didn’t want it. It was too much responsibility for one man.

“If my father really were a prince,” he said, “why did he not tell me?”

“Perhaps he couldn’t,” Leon said. “Vortigern was a conqueror. He killed the Pendragon family. I suppose Uther was the only one who escaped. He didn’t tell you in order to keep you safe, not to deny your birthright.”

Arthur’s frown deepened. “Then why…did he disappear?”

No one answered.

He inhaled deeply, eyes sliding closed, brow furrowed. Arthur brought the ruby-stud in _Excalibur_ ’s pommel to his lips. A surge of warmth spread through his chest, and he thought he imagined a shadowy form of his father watching him, urging him on.

“If I must,” he said at last. “For my father. For Camelot. For Merlin.”

The others’ grins went unnoticed, until Arthur was startled by the sudden, “All! _Hail_! All! _Hail_! All! _Hail_!”

Embarrassingly, Sirs Leon and Percival knelt in respect, bowing their heads. Before he could tell them to please stand, Gwaine enveloped him in a tight hug, then gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Arthur groaned and tried to escape the scratchy beard to no avail, his arms effectively trapped to his sides. Even _Excalibur_ was useless for defense against Gwaine’s love.

“For God’s sake, let go! and get up!”

{Birthright}

            “We should find a place to rest for tonight,” Leon said. He glanced up at the still-dark sky. “Someplace with some shelter, so we can build a fire.”

            “Someplace with some dinner,” Gwaine muttered. “I’m bloody starving.”

            Arthur surreptitiously stuffed another few berries into his mouth, chewing quietly. _Excalibur_ was belted securely at his waist in a sheath that was a little too large but that Percival had kindly lent him. Now both knights’ swords hung at their sides naked and dangerous-looking, but neither seemed to mind much.

            “We could go there,” Percival said. They glanced at him, and then in the direction in which he was pointing. Sure enough, after a moment, they were able to make out a thin trail of smoke. It was nearly invisible against the black sky, even after the wind had died down.

            “Good job, Sir Percival,” Leon said. “Shall we?”

            “Fine by me!” Gwaine said, already more lighthearted at the prospect of a chance of eating.

            “Who would be way out here?” Arthur wondered.

            “Possibly Druids,” Leon replied.

            “Druids?” Arthur repeated. “I thought they’d all gone.”

            “Many of them have,” Leon said. “Vortigern was…unkind to them in the past, but King Leodegrance was much more tolerant.”

            “If they are Druids,” Arthur pressed thoughtfully, “do you think they would help us defeat the witch? They have magic, right?”

            “They are a peaceful people,” the knight responded slowly, unwilling to commit to a yes or a no. “It would not hurt to suggest it to them, I suppose.”

            Arthur nodded, content in the possibility.

            The group continued the trek in silence.

{Birthright}

            “You must keep up your strength, my girl,” Gaius said, proffering the charred fish on a stick.

            Guinevere merely made a gagging noise and turned away from the repulsive stare of the skewered creature.

            Gaius exhaled pointedly, then shook his head and sat back. He placed the fish against a flat stone he had been using as a plate and proceeded to eat his own fish, which he had caught by, of course, magic.

            After a moment, he said, “Would you eat if I stripped the flesh for you?”

            “…No. I’m not hungry.”

            “I told you, you must eat regardless!”

            She glared at him and in her fiercest voice snapped, “And I said I don’t want it!” Her voice rang sharply through the clearing, and Gaius’ eyebrow rose to a dangerous height, but the princess found that she did not care at all. Her temper was shot, her birthright stolen, her family dead. What did it matter whether she ate? She would only regurgitate it later, anyway.

            Guinevere lay on her side, her back to Gaius, so she could wallow in self-pity. It was an indulgence she rarely allowed herself.

            Gaius said nothing more, merely ate his meal with a disapproving expression.

            Silence reigned.

            The princess squeezed her eyes shut, brow pinched. Perhaps she might sleep, dream of a time gone by. She tried to regulate her breathing, but her corset hindered her lungs. Of course there had been no time to bring her nightdress or anything else at all.

            “Who goes there?” the bishop demanded sharply.

            Guinevere’s eyes snapped open. She suddenly felt quite alert, lying rigid with her back to whomever was entering the clearing—she could hear their footsteps crunching in the leaves, for there was more than one intruder.

            “Ah!” Gaius’ voice sounded much more pleased, and Guinevere relaxed a smidgeon, though her heart still raced and her legs trembled. So whoever had arrived must have been the old friend he had told her about. The one with magic.

            “Gaius, it’s you!” said an unfamiliar voice. “What on earth—er, is that…?”

            There was a short few seconds of silence, and Guinevere wondered whether she could get away with the pretense of sleep.

            “Yes, it is the Princess Guinevere,” Gaius responded. “Unfortunately, I was not in time to…well. Perhaps it’s best to not speak of it right this moment…”

            “What,” Guinevere said despite herself, “that Elyan’s dead?”

            Gaius sighed. “Yes. Guinevere, perhaps you should greet our guests? I know you’re having a difficult time, but…”

            The princess wiped her face with a sigh and propped herself up onto one elbow. After a quick sniffle to clear her sinuses so she would not sound stuffy, she completed the process of sitting up and turned around to face the arrivals.

            Four men were standing awkwardly at the edge of the trees.

            “My lady,” said the one in front, a man with curly straw hair. He bowed deeply from the waist, followed by his very large, sleeveless friend.

            “My lord,” she responded dutifully, but made no further move. She was obviously, even in her bedraggled state, of a higher status than he. Her red-rimmed, puffy eyes moved to the two men standing in the back, awaiting her proper greeting.

            “‘Ello, Gwen!” said Gwaine, waving cheerily. His grin was a bit forced, for though he did not know who Elyan was, it was plain that his death had quite affected the young woman.

            “My lady,” Arthur said, bowing clumsily. _Excalibur_ took the opportunity to slip out of its scabbard, disturbing the peace. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, quickly retrieving it and stuffing it back inside the sheath as he stood, blushing furiously.

            When he glanced up, it was to see the princess staring at him with a stricken expression, mouth hanging ajar.

            “…My lady?” he asked tentatively, glancing toward Leon as though to determine whether he was overstepping his bounds. But Leon gave no hint, looking just as confused.

            “Ar—Arthur?” she whispered, hands coming up to cover her lips.

            “Yes…”

            “You’re alive!” She scrambled to her feet unsteadily. “I thought—I thought you were dead!”

            “Are you—Are you quite all right?” he asked, concerned.

            Gaius was still sitting, picking the bones from his fish, but he glanced up with an eyebrow raised as the princess threw herself forward. As soon as her hands touched Arthur, felt his warmth, his heartbeat in his chest, she collapsed into his arms, sobbing anew.

            Arthur was dumbstruck. Eyes wide, he met Gwaine’s gaze. Gwaine shrugged, then ambled over to the fire and took a seat, watching the show. Leon and Percival looked as though they wanted to intervene, but neither dared.

            “And where is Merlin?” Gaius asked at last, raising his voice slightly to be heard over Guinevere’s noises. “I suppose he’s tired? Waiting to present a grand depiction of his battle?” He chuckled slightly, but when the princess let out another vicious sob, he looked more somber, chagrined.

            Arthur felt his heart fall much lower than it already had been. He shared a look with the others, and opened his mouth to say something, when Guinevere finally swallowed thickly once or twice and stood back.

            “I’m sorry,” she said. “I really must apolo—apologize for my behavior. That was wrong of me to do.”

            “No,” Arthur said, “it’s quite all right.”

            “It’s not,” she laughed, a bit embarrassed. “But thank you. Well, um, please come sit, Arthur. I’m so glad to see you again…”

            “You as well,” he answered. His eye caught the state of her dress, all covered in stains that he knew well enough were blood. But obviously not her own, as she moved without injury.

            Gaius set down the fish, looking from Arthur to Gwaine to Leon to Percival. He seem dissatisfied. “Where is the lamp? Where is Merlin?”

            Arthur lowered his gaze to the flames, chewing his lower lip.

            “Oh, dear God,” Gaius said. “The witch has taken him, hasn’t she?”

            “I’m so sorry, Gaius,” Leon said. “We failed.”

            Gaius lowered his hoary head and crossed himself slowly. “God have mercy.”

            Guinevere’s heart rate picked up in dismay. If the ever-calm bishop bethought them doomed, then there really must be no hope.

            The old man turned toward the lake, eyes glistening.

            “But…” Arthur cleared his throat, a bit intimidated. “But we have another plan, to rescue Merlin.”

            Gaius raised an eyebrow, but did not speak nor turn back.

            Arthur continued, “Merlin told us that the only way to kill the witch was with a sword forged in the breath of a dragon. Constantine’s sword.”

            “Yes,” said the bishop, but he did not seem at all excited at the prospect. “It is also the only way to kill Merlin.”

            “Well, we’re not killing _Mer_ lin,” Arthur responded, appalled at the thought. He shifted uncomfortably. “See, we’ll kill the witch and take Merlin’s lamp back from her, and then Merlin can merge with himself, or whatever he needs to do.”

            “That will only work if the witch has not absorbed his essence,” Gaius said, “as she intends to do.”

            “Er, when will she do that?” Gwaine asked.

            “As soon as possible,” he replied, brow creasing as he frowned. “I’ll warrant she has already.”

            “Is there really no way?” Arthur asked, distressed. The other men looked quite put out as well; Gwaine hadn’t even reached for one of the fish, for all his claims of starvation.

            “I wonder…” Gaius murmured, staring out across the lake. Then he stood. “One of you come with me.”

            Startled, no one moved, watching the bishop move with determination toward the shore of the lake. Arthur, after sharing a glance with Leon, scrambled to his feet and hurried after Gaius. When he caught up, he was surprised to see the old man beckon at something beneath the surface of the glassy water. Arthur looked out and missed the golden flash of Gaius’ eyes.

            The water rippled and bulged a short distance away, and a boat rose from the depths, much to Arthur’s shock. He heard awed noises behind him and knew that the others were seeing it as well. The boat, which had surfaced upside-down, rocked back and forth, then slowly flipped over even as it was magically drawn toward dry land. The small wooden craft was not wet at all, despite its submergence.

            Once it drew near, Gaius hiked up his robes and stepped inside. The boat did not wobble at all. The old man sat at the bow and motioned impatiently for Arthur to get in as well. The blond did, holding his new sword steady.

            “There’s no oars,” Arthur noted as he sat down.

            “No need,” was the calm response.

            As though an invisible rope were being pulled from the opposite shore, the boat began to move forward. Arthur gripped the sides tightly, almost afraid that the boat would tip and sink into its original position, taking them both with it.

            But the watercraft did no such thing. Indeed, there was hardly a ripple as it slid smoothly toward the middle of the lake. Arthur chanced a glance over the starboard, and could see directly to the silty bottom, where green grass grew. Glittering gold, rusted irons, and tools were piled along the ground, offerings from Druids long past. He realized that this lake was probably used for ritual burials, as Merlin had said he’d done for Freya.

            “Gaius,” he said.

            “Yes, my boy.”

            “What is this place called?”

            “This is the Lake of Avalon.”

            “Avalon,” Arthur repeated. “Like the Fairyworld?”

            “Like the Afterworld, more like,” Gaius responded, still looking ahead. “That is, for those who practice the Old Religion.”

            “Ah.”

            Arthur glanced over his shoulder, and saw the knights, Gwaine, and the princess standing on the shore, watching them solemnly. They seemed to know as little as Arthur did about the mysterious affair, but he doubted that Gaius was bringing him out here to do something untoward. Gwaine was a good swimmer, and Arthur trusted that he’d rescue him should anything happen. Hopefully.

            “Here we are,” Gaius said.

            Arthur turned forwards and saw that the boat had finally come to a full stop in the center. He watched the old man expectantly for a moment, but he did nothing but sit patiently, as though waiting for something himself.

            “Er,” Arthur said tentatively. “What are we doing?”

            Gaius did not deign to reply, merely watched the water portside. The thief cum king fell quiet and leaned over a bit so he could see as well. He gasped softly at the sight of Merlin lying still and lifeless. He looked close enough to touch, just below the surface of the lake, as though trapped under a layer of clear ice.

            “His corporeal form is preserved by magic,” Gaius explained in a hushed tone. “It does not house his soul, so to waken it would be like bringing to life his shadow.”

            “Are…Are we wakening him—it?”

            “I don’t know yet, my boy.”

            “Oh.”

            Privately, Arthur wondered how long it would take Gaius to decide. The boat did make him nervous, especially with the storm clouds overhead that, if they poured, could whip up tall waves that could sink the boat. Even Gwaine could not save him in that case.

            “Perhaps…” Gaius murmured. He reached out a gnarled hand and dipped it into the water. He touched Merlin’s brow, creating golden ripples that spread outward from the touch. Arthur watched with bated breath as Merlin’s thick lashes fluttered. But he did not wake.

            Instead, a dark shadow from below bubbled upwards.

            As it approached, Arthur could make out some features: flowing black locks, and a maroon dress that twisted artistically around a womanish form, which became even more defined the closer it came. Long, pale arms stretched upwards and broke the surface, flinging water droplets in every direction. The rest of her followed; the parts of her that the air touched quickly dried, returning her hair to its natural curly state. Soulful brown eyes appeared beneath thick dark lashes.

            “Gaius,” she greeted, sitting on the surface of the water as though it were solid.

            “Freya,” the old man smiled fondly.

            She smiled in return, cocking her head so that her hair created a curtain that hid Merlin from view. “Not that I am not glad to see you, of course,” she said, “but may I inquire why you’ve summoned me from Avalon?”

            “It’s only fair,” Gaius replied solemnly.

            Arthur could only stare at the beautiful Freya as the conversation continued. He certainly hadn’t expected the Lady of the Lake to be a real lady; he’d thought it was more metaphorical, how the land of Albion was given a feminine pronoun.

            “I am afraid,” Gaius sighed heavily, “that the witch has taken Merlin.”

            Despair tinged her placid expression, but she quickly mastered it. “But Kilgharrah…”

            “Dead,” the old man answered shortly, shaking his head.

            “I see.”

            There was a moment of silence wherein Gaius waited, perhaps giving her a moment to silently grieve, or awaiting some advice. Freya’s penetrating gaze drifted toward Arthur, then down to the sword on his hip.

            “The sword of Constantine,” she said, subconsciously bringing a hand to her side as though to cover an invisible wound. Arthur remembered the story Merlin had told them, and fervently wished he had left the weapon with the others.

            Gaius glanced at the sword as well, then back at Freya. “To use it would destroy Merlin as well,” he said.

            “Yes,” she responded slowly. Freya met eyes with Arthur again. “Where is the lamp?”

            “Er, Nimueh took it,” Arthur said, discomfited by her quiet intensity.

            “Then you must get it back,” she said. “Take the lamp from the witch, and rub it thrice. Merlin’s soul should be summoned forth, and sucked back into its receptacle. Then kill the witch, and return here for Merlin.” Before Arthur could reply, she reached out and tightly gripped his hand, which was resting on the hilt of his sword.

He started, but did not pull away. His fright was chased away by the tingling warmth that spread up his arm from her touch—it was not unlike Merlin’s.

“Arthur,” she continued, some strange power entering her voice and strengthening it. “I name thee son of the dragon, of night and the slaughter. Take thy sword, wrought by a king for the hand of the chosen, and answer the calling thee cannot deny. Go thee to Camelot, unifier of Albion, and take back that which is thine!”

Then she released him, and in the blink of an eye she had gone, dispersed into the watery depths that was her home.

“Wha…?” Arthur gasped, shaken by the prophecy.

Nothing more could be said for the moment, for the boat suddenly began to spin around, casting a shadow over Merlin’s pale, blueish face. Once the bow was directed toward the shore, it glided toward it.

Gaius looked appraisingly at Arthur, who trembling slightly from the experience.

“Son of the dragon,” he mused. “A strange title.”

“I don’t know what it means,” Arthur said, tightening his grip on the sword. The encrusted ruby pressed into his palm, giving him some modicum of comfort, almost familiarity.

“Hmm.” The old man was still looking at him as though he were suspicious, but Arthur could find no satisfactory answer to give. He certainly didn’t want the one man able to ordain divine right to rule to decide Arthur was fit for kingship.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence.

When they arrived at the shore, the others had returned to sit by the fire, waiting for them. Gaius and Arthur stepped out of the boat, which promptly turned around again and sank a ways from land, its original resting place. They approached to apprehensive but hungry stares. Gwaine was eating one of the fish, which had long gone cold.

Thunder rumbled ominously as they sat down, and Gaius began to tell them who the distant figure had been and what she had said, if only to appease their curiosity.

“Son of the dragon, eh?” Gwaine said, looking at Arthur. “Well, she had that bit wrong, I think. Honestly, I think I’m the only one who recognizes you as a lady.”

Guinevere looked confused at that, but the others only rolled their eyes.

“We need to make a plan,” Leon said.

“Aye, because that worked so well last time,” Gwaine drawled, flicking a charred fish eye toward the trees.

“This time we know what we’re up against,” Leon insisted. “Now, obviously we can’t go in the same way, because there’s every chance the witch will still be in the throne room, and she could be expecting us. We have to find a way in no one would think to guard.”

Gwaine raised a hand. “I know of one.”

“We’re not climbing up the latrines,” Arthur shot him down immediately.

“No one would expect it.”

“But we can expect a face full of—“ the blond cut himself off, suddenly mortified to remember the presence of Princess Guinevere. The both of them blushed.

“One of us,” interjected Percival, the first time he’d spoken in a long while, “should distract the witch, while the others sneak in through the catacombs.”

“Right, a good idea, Sir Percival,” Leon nodded. “And that person should, if possible, take the lamp and get Merlin while they are at it. That would weaken Nimueh considerably.”

“Indeed,” Gaius agreed. “I shall volunteer to distract her.”

“No,” Arthur said. “It’s too dangerous. You should stay here with Princess Guinevere, where it’s safe.”

“Excuse me,” Guinevere said, frowning. “And who said I was staying?”

The men turned to her, agape.

“Er, well,” Arthur stammered. “You’re a lady, and a battle is no place…” He trailed off as her expression turned deadpan.

“Oh, I see,” she said coldly. “And out in the forest with no shelter is the place for an esteemed lady such as myself. Better to die of starvation and cold than fighting for her kingdom, is it?”

Gwaine snickered.

“Do you find that funny, Gwaine?” she asked him ruefully.

“Aye, I do,” he said, eyes twinkling merrily. “In fact, I think that if ye can’t be allowed to fight, then neither should Arthur, yeah? Women stay behind together.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of that?” Arthur sighed, struggling to suppress his frustration.

“No.”

“Of course not.”

“Anyway,” Leon said, shifting uncomfortably. He didn’t look pleased to be inviting Guinevere along, but he could not refuse her. “Then Gaius and Guinevere can distract the witch. When we step in to fight her, you two must flee at once.”

“Fine,” Guinevere said.

“We shall lead her to the throne room,” Gaius said. “That way you men can come in through the same passage and take her by surprise.”

“How will you distract her?” Arthur asked, nervous about the whole affair.

“I will do whatever it takes,” he answered firmly.

“We all will,” Guinevere said, standing.

The others followed her example, looking solemnly and determinedly at one another through the smoke of the fire at the center of their circle.


	9. For Elyan

Chapter 8

For Elyan

            Morgana smiled pleasantly at her audience, who stared back. Those seated closest to the head of the table, where the witch stood, tried to make themselves look as small as possible, watching her through their lashes. Only a few made a brave attempt to return her smile, but it only made them look even closer to hysterical tears.

            It was hard to ignore the pile of bodies and the blood, and the buzzing of flies as they feasted on the carnage.

            At last, the Court Sorceress spoke: “I am glad that all of you could make it here.”

            Several of the women shifted uneasily, eyes darting toward the decapitated noblemen, most of whom had been a husband to the converged ladies of the court. Shock and fear kept them subdued.

            “There are several issues I wanted to bring to your attention,” she continued when no one spoke. “The first being that, since Regent Bishop Gaius and Princess Guinevere are nowhere to be found, I shall be assuming command of the kingdom.”

            She received no response, only wide-eyed stares and a few shoulder-wracking tremors.

            “As your new queen,” Morgana said in the same light tone, “I have comprised a list of laws and amendments, which will hereafter go into effect.” She gestured to an unrolled scroll in front of her, the furling corners of which were held by two gleaming daggers thrust point down into the tabletop.

            “Firstly, and I am sure that all of you will more than pleased with this,” she chuckled, “is that women shall be declared equal citizens, capable of carrying out the same jobs as men. In fact, I feel that women are much more qualified in politics than men. They just seem to…lose their heads over arbitrary issues.”

            One of the ladies toward the back let out a choked sob at the uncouth statement. Morgana’s smirk slipped slightly, her eyes hardening as they moved in the direction of the sound. The women tensed with trepidation, but their new dictator merely returned her gaze to the paper before her.

            “Where was I?” she asked aridly. “Ah, yes. Education will be made universal and low-cost. All children must attend a tutor, even the girls, since they are now first-class citizens of Camelot. Also, magic lessons shall be mandatory for all ages, especially for the nobles.”

            A shocked murmur arose among the women, who stirred.

            Morgana waited patiently for them to quieten, smiling placidly all the while. “I understand change can be frightening, but it’s for the best. Don’t you agree?” Her tone turned icy toward the end, and everyone, remembering the men’s fates, remained silent and did their bests to adopt obedient expressions.

            “Now, most importantly, my dears,” she went on, “is the issue of religion. I see from your jewelry that many of you believe in the so-called One God.”

            Several women, trembling renewed, reached up and covered their breasts with a hand, hiding the crosses that adorned them.

            “I understand that you were raised to believe in that farcical nonsense,” she said gently, “but now I am going to be sure that everyone learns the truth of the Old Religion and pays homage to our Goddess. For now, that will be taught by tutors as well, until parents know enough of it to teach their children as—“

            Her voice was cut off by the sound of the double doors opening. She looked up, deeply offended at the interruption.

            “How dare you!” she snapped.

            The intruders stopped at once, surprised. Morgana, once she recognized them, adopted the same expression. After a moment, her features smoothed over into the same wooden expression she had been using to address the noble ladies seated before her.

            “Lady Morgana,” Gaius said, quickly adopting a neutral expression even as his gaze slid toward the beheaded noblemen. “Is this your doing?”

            “Them?” she gestured toward the carnage. “No, but that was.” Her hand moved toward the twisted corpse of Nimueh. “She made the other mess.”

            Guinevere covered her mouth and nose, horrified. The other ladies in the room appeared immensely relieved that their regent and princess had returned, obviously hoping that Morgana’s madness would disappear in the face of defeat.

            “Where have you been?” Morgana asked tightly. “We looked all over. I was just taking over affairs until you returned.”

            “Well,” Gaius said slowly, “we have returned now. Shall we adjourn this meeting, whatever it was?”

            “No,” she said. “‘Tis an important meeting. I’m afraid that we can’t stop now.”

            “And why is that?” Gaius clasped his hands behind his back and raised his chin challengingly.

            Morgana’s pleasant façade was quickly eroding in her desperation to keep the power she had only just procured. “Because I am the queen now, and there is nothing you can do to stop me!”

            “I see,” Gaius said.

            “No,” Guinevere said sharply, overriding him. Gaius looked startled, and the ladies visibly tensed. At Morgana’s stare, Guinevere amended her tone. “No,” she said more softly, attempting a smile. “You are not the queen—not _yet_.”

            The sorceress did not seem appeased. She narrowed her eyes in a silent gesture for the princess to continue.

            “We need my official abdication,” Gwen continued, wringing her hands. “Otherwise you’ll be an usurper, and people may rebel. We have to do this right and proper, don’t you agree?”

            Morgana’s expression melted into something much more genuine even as the other women’s faces fell deeper into despair.

            “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. You’re right, my sweet, sweet Gwen.” She stepped around the table and crossed the room, her arms held out for an embrace. Guinevere hesitantly wrapped her arms around Morgana in a perversion of the kindly hugs they had once shared, feeling disgust to her very core. This was her brother’s murderer.

            “Gaius,” Gwen said, taking the excuse to escape Morgana’s grasp. “You’ll write up the document, won’t you?”

            “Yes, of course,” he answered reflexively. “I can do it this very afternoon, if you like.”

            “Wonderful!” Morgana declared. She turned back to the noblewomen, all still seated and faint-looking. “And, if we organize it as quickly as possible, my coronation can take place tomorrow afternoon! And we shall feast to celebrate. Of course, it won’t be quite formal until I’ve sent messages to all the other kingdoms, but that can come later. I know they will recognize me as queen. Well, I’ll leave you ladies to it! Try and have it all done as quickly as you can. Use as many servants as you will need.”

            The ladies, if it were at all possible, looked all the more dismayed at their orders.

            “Gaius, you’ll go and write it up at once, won’t you?” she asked, turning back like an overexcited child. “And Gwen, you’ll help me get ready, won’t you? I want everything to be perfect. I shall be wedding a kingdom, after all, and a woman needs to look nice.”

            “Of course,” Guinevere smiled. It looked more like a grimace, but Morgana did not seem to notice.

            “We can pick out my dress now,” she said. “Off we go!”

            With a swish of her skirts, Morgana swept out of the chamber, obviously expecting to be diligently followed by the ex-princess. The princess and the bishop shared a foreboding look.

            “I shall inform the others,” he said quietly.

            She nodded, then hurried off. Morgana was walking very fast.

{Birthright}

            Arthur gagged, clapping a hand over his mouth and nose to press the thick cloth tighter. “I can’t do this,” he said, voice muffled.

            Gwaine rolled his eyes. “It’s just a bit o’ sewage, Princess,” he said. “Percival isn’t complainin’!” He patted the burly knight’s arm.

            “I think he’s dead, actually,” Arthur responded.

            Gwaine took a closer look. “Nay, just holdin’ his breath. Ye should give it a try.”

            With that they continued moving forward, feet sinking noisily in the mire. Arthur was extremely careful to not touch the slimy walls, for they were covered with the same rancid feces and urine.

            “I still think we should have gone through the catacombs,” he muttered, narrowly avoiding slipping and falling into the muck. “I’m going to be sick.”

            “We’re almost there,” Leon whispered, his voice echoing lazily back. “It’s this way.” He surreptitiously wiped his streaming eyes with a sleeve.

            “Thank God,” Percival said.

            “I’ve been in worse,” Gwaine announced. “Did I ever tell ye ‘bout the time—“

            “Not now, _Gwaine_ ,” Arthur hissed.

            “Yer missin’ out, mate.”

{Birthright}

            Morgana immediately went to her dresser and leaned forward to peer into the looking glass. “Am I too flushed? I am, aren’t I?” she babbled, pressing her cool fingers to her cheeks. “Well, maybe it’ll have gone away by tomorrow, do you think?”

            “I’m sure,” Guinevere responded tightly. She shut the door quietly behind her, then stood for a moment to compose herself.

            “What do you think I should wear?”

            She opened her eyes and resisted the urge to run out, locking her ex-friend inside. The princess forced a smile onto her face and turned. “Well, let’s see what you have, shall we?”

            Morgana nodded, her raven curls bouncing. She waved toward the wardrobe, but did not leave her reflection. She concentrated intensely on her lip paints, which were all sorts of different shades. They would have to decide which looked best with whatever she wore.

            Guinevere crossed to the wardrobe and flung it open, then absently began to shove dresses aside. She cast a glance down toward the shoes, and froze.

            “Morgana?” she said.

            “Yes?”

            “What’s this?” Gwen knelt and picked up a golden lamp that most certainly did not look as though it belonged amongst the neat rows of slippers.

            The sorceress turned and tensed when she saw what the princess was holding. As quickly as the panic had appeared it was smoothed over by a sickeningly sweet smile. “A gift,” she said, “from a dear, dear friend of mine.” She crooked her finger, and the lamp leapt from Gwen’s hands and flew the distance between them to land in Morgana’s outstretched palm. Then she returned to her visage, setting the lamp on her dresser amongst her jewelry and makeups.

            “I see,” Guinevere said faintly. Then she shook herself. “I don’t—I don’t see anything here fit for coronation,” she said, rifling fervently through the dresses without looking.

            Morgana looked stricken. “Then what shall I wear? Is there enough time to commission a new dress now?!”

            “No,” Gwen negated, licking her lips nervously. “But…But I think I’ve got something in my rooms that’s just perfect.”

            “Really?” the sorceress visibly relaxed.

            “Yes,” she nodded. “You wait here, and I’ll run and fetch it!”

            Guinevere immediately spun on her heel, mind and heart racing, and practically ran toward the door.

            “Gwen!” Morgana said. The princess halted and reluctantly turned back. The sorceress smiled at her. “You should change, dear. And, when we’ve finished getting my things prepared, I’ll help you with your hair.”

            “All right.”

            With a little more control to her steps, Guinevere turned and strode out the door, closing it behind her for Morgana’s privacy. Then, when she was sure her steps were out of earshot, she hiked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could toward the steps that would lead into the main of the castle. If she hurried to meet Gaius in his chambers and told him that it was Morgana, not Nimueh, who had taken Merlin, there might be time to salvage the mission. The sorceress might not miss her very soon, but if she got back late she could claim difficulty in dressing herself, and that she had thought to find a servant until she had gotten herself undressed. Morgana, in her madness, would believe the best of Guinevere.

            Under normal circumstances, the princess would have been gasping for breath, slowing down, but there was no time for the infirmity of womanhood.

            “Gaius!” she uttered, catching sight of his back as he began to climb the stairs of his tower.

            He turned, startled, and came to meet her. “Gwen, what is it?”

            “It’s Morgana,” the princess wheezed, clutching the stitch in her side. “The lamp—Morgana—has it.”

            A perturbed eyebrow raised. “This changes everything,” he said. “Then it is as I feared: Nimueh is dead. But perhaps Merlin is…Did you bring the lamp?”

            “No, Morgana has it,” Guinevere panted. “But she’s…She’s being protective of it, so that must mean…”

            “Yes,” Gaius said. “Merlin must not have been absorbed into Nimueh, thank God. We still have a chance. We will only have to try to enact our plan on Morgana instead.”

            “I have to get back to Morgana, I cannot stay long. Someone must tell the others.”

            “Well, of course I will,” Gaius responded, as though it were obvious. “Morgana will not be able to tell whether I am working on the document of abdication as long as she is distracted. I will bring the others to her chambers. You must make sure she will not be alerted, and do try to leave the door ajar.”

            “I will,” the princess promised, turning on her heel. She hiked up her skirts again, heart still pumping furiously and her legs aching with exertion, and ran back the way she had come. She could only hope that Morgana would not miss her soon, or wonder why she was so sweaty.

            It took her much longer to run back up the stairs than it had taken her to descend them, and she found herself regretting every decision that had led her to this point. If she could go back in time somehow and stop her father from ever accepting the rule of Camelot, she would. Then none of this would ever have happened—at least not to her and her family.

            But she persevered, and at last reached her own chambers. Her legs wobbled dangerously beneath her, and the princess lurched drunkenly toward her wardrobe. First she had to change, then find something that Morgana might like and take it to her. She’d already wasted so much time.

            Guinevere tore at the lacings at the back of her dress and ripped the bodice off, casting it aside. As she dropped her skirts and kicked them away, she spotted a figure out of the corner of her eye.

            Her throat closed up, the room spinning violently. Chest and eyes burning, the princess slowly turned toward it.

            Elyan was still lying where she had abandoned him.

            A strangled moan escaped her lips, and the princess pressed her hands against her pounding temples. A hot tear slipped down her cheek, and she used the last vestiges of her strength to look away from her brother. Sinking to her knees in front of her wardrobe, Gwen heaved for breath, fighting the urge to be sick. Even as her vision swam, she selected a pair of shoes to wear at random, then rifled through her vibrantly-colored skirts to find something that might match.

            She tugged one free from its hanger and pulled it over her head.

            The princess sat for a moment in the darkness of the heavy fabric, struggling to control her emotions. If she did not hurry, she would never avenge her family. And others, under Morgana’s rule, would surely lose theirs. Guinevere had a duty to her people.

            At once she began to work her arms through the sleeves, then her head through the neckline. It was her purple dress, the one she wore specially for happy occasions, such as her birthday. Perhaps it would bring her luck.

            Using the doorknob as leverage, Guinevere pulled herself back up to her feet and slipped them into the white slippers she had gotten. Determinedly not glancing in the direction of Elyan, she flung dress after dress to one side until she came to a royal blue one with gold trim and embroidery. It would have to do.

            Guinevere slung it over her arm and hurried to the door.

            She paused, then glanced over her shoulder, face aged through grief.

            “Goodbye, Elyan.”

            Then she swept out of the room.

{Birthright}

            “Hello-lo-lo-lo?” echoed a voice through the cold corridor.

            The men froze, listening.

            “Did you hear that?” Arthur whispered.

            “Aye,” Gwaine said ominously. “The shite monster’s a-callin’.”

            “Sir Leon-on-on-on?”

            “An’ it’s after Leon,” Gwaine commented.

            “Hold on,” Leon frowned, turning back. “That sounds like Gaius, doesn’t it?”

            “Hello-lo-lo-lo!”

            Leon squelched through the sewage, returning the way they had come. Arthur resisted the urge to cry. He desperately wanted out of the muck, not to spend even more time in it.

            “Gaius?” Leon called back. His voice echoed forward and back along the length. He held the torch aloft, searching for the hunched figure that would be the bishop.

            “Sir Leon-on-on?”

            They were growing closer, Arthur knew, because there was less of an echo.

            “Where are you, Gaius?” the senior knight asked, voice raised.

            “I am in the latrine-ine,” came the garbled reply.

            “The latrine?” Arthur repeated, frowning in confusion.

            But Leon appeared to understand, and moved dangerously close to the wall, holding the torch higher. “Can you see my light, Gaius?”

            “I see it-it,” came the echoed reply. “Thank God I found you-you!”

            “What is it?” Leon asked.

            Arthur stepped cautiously closer and peered upwards, but saw nothing but a dark hole. The wall beneath it was eroded and streaked with different shades and colors of the hideousness that Arthur knew to derive from bodily functions. He stepped back again, seeing no point in looking up if he could not see the person to whom they were speaking. Instead, he listened intently.

            “Nimueh is dead-ead,” Gaius informed them.

            “Bloody hell, we did this for nothing!” Arthur spluttered, acutely aware of the waste soaked into his woolen socks. It had flooded his boots not too long ago, much to his disgust. He had almost left right then and given up the whole mission.

            “Not for nothing-ing!” Gaius said. “For we still must rescue Merlin-in. He’s been taken instead by-by Morgana-a-a.”

            “Who?” Gwaine grunted.

            “The Court Sorceress-ess.”

            “What are we going to do?” Leon asked. “Has the plan changed?”

            “It has-as,” the bishop responded gravely. “Guinevere is distracting Morgana in her chambers-ers. We must meet her there-ere, in the west wing-ing.”

            “I know where it is,” Leon said, nodding his curly head. “Shall we meet you at the west entrance? I think I can find the way to a servant’s passage that should lead there.”

            “Yes-es,” Gaius said. “I shall be there-ere. Come quickly-ly.”

            “Yes, sire!” Leon said, saluting even though he would have been invisible to the bishop. “Let us go, then.”

            They turned at once and headed toward the exit—or entrance, depending on the way one looked at things. At any rate, Arthur was glad to be leaving that horrid place, so he would not complain much of the waste of time.

{Birthright}

            Gaius could smell them before they arrived.

            He said nothing, merely looked at them and tried to suppress his amusement because of the direness of the situation. There would be time for laughter later, when Morgana had been defeated. At any rate, the men seemed to be self-conscious enough of their stench and state. Their faces were as foul as their boots.

            Gaius was suddenly and vividly assailed with the memorable image of Merlin returning to their shared rooms after a mishap in the stables. He quickly shrugged it off. Time was of the essence.

            “Are you ready?” he asked quietly.

            “More than,” Arthur said, clenching his fist around the hilt of _Excalibur_ to conceal the shaking of his hands.

            “Sir Percival,” Leon whispered. “You and Gwaine should circle around to the servant’s entrance, in case she tries to escape. The rest of us will enter her main doors.”

            Percival nodded and began to slink his hunched bulk down the passage. Gwaine looked as though he would protest, but Arthur inclined his head toward the retreating knight, giving his friend a meaningful look. Gwaine let whatever he had been going to say turn into a soft exhale, and followed.

            “Let us go,” Gaius said, stepping forward. He stuck his head outside of the door and looked both ways. There were few servants left wandering the halls, particularly in the wings dedicated to the nobles’ rooms. No one was coming.

            They snuck out of the corridor into the main of the castle’s west wing, which branched off into several chambers along the walls. Many of the doors stood open, indicating the lack of inhabitation; others were shut tight, concealing their interiors from few. Only one stood ajar, and Arthur somehow knew that that was the room to which they were going.

            Gaius tiptoed over to it, but was overtaken by Leon, whose stride was much wider. His knees were bent so that he could drop to the ground or break into a run at a moment’s notice, as though he were hunting in the outdoors, and his sword were his bow. He crept to a halt at the crack in the door, positioning himself low to the ground and peering in, like a naughty child waiting for the right moment to steal sweets from the kitchen.

            He turned back to them, stepping aside so a chanced glance would not spot his figure through the door. Leon spoke so lowly that he might have well as mouthed it, because Gaius could not hear him no matter how he strained his old ears. But he got the gist: the lamp was on the dresser, and Morgana and Guinevere were standing near it.

            Gaius stepped forward to be the first one to enter; he’d need the most time to sneak past the girls and grab the receptacle. Leon would be next to go inside, ready to distract Morgana should she see them and attack. Arthur would go last, sword at the ready to stab the witch through the heart. It was not a pleasant job, but he reminded himself that it was for the good of everyone involved. He hoped that Percival and Gwaine were already in position, though realistically they would need a few more minutes to circle around.

            The bishop ever so slowly pushed the door along its hinges, widening the gap. Arthur’s muscles bunched painfully, screaming for him to move. But he mastered his instincts and stayed himself.

            Arthur glanced over their shoulders and saw that Guinevere was ushering the other woman behind the changing screen, talking about propriety. She tossed the blue dress she had been carrying over her arm up onto the screen, were it hung. The princess waved them inside with a hand behind her back.

            They went as quickly as they dared.

            Gaius split off from the younger men, hurrying toward the dresser where Merlin’s lamp sat. Arthur drew _Excalibur_ from the borrowed sheath; the rasp was drowned out by Gwen’s nonsensical chatter. She hardly stopped for breath, let alone to give Morgana a chance to respond.

            Arthur moved closer to the side Morgana would come appear once she had finished dressing, and Leon cautiously took the other end to prevent her escape.

            A pale hand reached up and tugged down the blue dress, and Guinevere stepped forward to help her make sense of the skirts and pull the garment on. She cast a glance over her shoulder, animatedly telling Morgana to turn around so she could keep the hem from being caught in the button of her shift. Arthur looked across the room and saw that Gaius was tiptoeing toward the lamp still. He bit back his impatience.

            The bishop couldn’t be rushed, or the plan could fall through.

            A bead of sweat tickled the blond’s temple. He did not move to wipe it away, afraid the rustling of his movement might alert the witch.

            “Guinevere,” Morgana raised her voice to be heard over the princess’s story about how once she had embarrassingly fallen in that very dress. “Would you be a dear and fetch my powder from the dresser? I don’t want to chafe in this.”

            “Oh, um,” Gwen said uncertainly. She was hesitant to leave Morgana in a position to discover the treachery. “Well, yes, of course. One moment. Don’t go anywhere!”

            “Where would I go?” was the humored response.

            The princess turned and met eyes with Gaius, who, hearing the conversation, began to back away out of sight. The lamp remained on the table. She rummaged through the perfume bottles and paints and small lidded boxes, frantically searching for the powder.

            Morgana swept out from behind the partition, chin high and eyes snakelike. Before Leon or Arthur could react, she shoved them back with a lazy wave of her finger. They grunted, their swords clattering out of their grips. The men scrambled to retrieve them.

“Gwen, Gwen, Gwen,” the sorceress sighed, shaking her head as she approached.

The princess, startled at the noise, whipped around. She stepped back, knocking into the dresser and rattling its contents.

“And here I thought we were friends,” Morgana continued. “I was so hoping that you would see sense. And Gaius, I am simply quite upset with you, and I imagine your God is as well. Does He know you used to practice magic?”

Gaius’ eyes flashed gold in an instant, and Morgana stumbled back a few steps with a surprised gasp. Her expression smoothed over into amusement.

“Ah, so you’ve not grown complacent in your old age,” she smirked.

The bishop raised an eyebrow. “ _My_ old age? My dear, you are eleven years my senior.”

Her smile faded at the reminder.

            Then, with a snarl, she spun on her heel and grasped Arthur’s wrist as he attempted to sneak up on her. “And what do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, golden flecks appearing in her green irises.

            The thief struggled against her vice-like grip, but it was too late.

            A weightless sensation appeared as a wind spontaneously roared to life. The bedspread and canopy fluttered; papers took flight; a bottle smashed against the floor. A veritable tornado had appeared, much like the one Merlin had summoned to whisk them out of Kilgharrah’s lair.

            “Arthur!” Guinevere cried.

            He gasped as his knees painfully struck stone. Morgana released him, and he stopped his face from striking the same gray surface by skinning the heels of his hands against it. A hard gust of chilly wind tousled his hair. Looking up, he spotted the tall figure of Morgana glaring down at him, a backdrop of stormy clouds swirling behind her.

            They were on the turrets of the castle.

            The sorceress smirked at him. “Did you really believe you could stop me? You’re nothing but a common thief.”

            Arthur blindly reached out for his sword, and grasped the hilt. He did not stop to wonder how he had known it was there. He scrambled to his feet, pointing the blade at her chest with the most ferocious scowl he could muster.

            She only laughed at him. Mockingly. Cruelly.

            Morgana cocked her head to one side. “I have nothing against you. Why do you resist my rule? I can be kind. In fact, side with me, and I shall grant you amnesty, and perhaps a plot of land.”

            A part of Arthur wholeheartedly urged him to take the deal, but then he remembered Freya’s prophecy: _“I name thee son of the dragon, of night and the slaughter. Take thy sword, wrought by a king for the hand of the chosen, and answer the calling thee cannot deny. Go thee to Camelot, unifier of Albion, and take back that which is thine!”_ He thought now he knew what she had meant.

            He had to answer his calling.

            “No,” he said firmly.

            “Then die,” Morgana said simply. She flung her hand one way, knocking the sword from Arthur’s grip and sending it out of his reach. Then she brought her hand back, and Arthur found the solid stone beneath his feet gone—she held him suspended over the edge of the wall of the tower.

            He flailed, but could grasp at nothing but air.

            Morgana stepped closer, her fist raised and eyes a molten gold, grinning victoriously. “Goodbye, thief.”

            Arthur squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight of the cobblestones rushing up to meet him. But he did not feel the ripping winds of a long fall—rather, he struck the sharp edge of the wall and instinctively held tight, digging his nails into a crevice and scraping the leather soles of his boots along the wall, searching for purchase.

            Morgana, green eyes wide, was gaping at him.

            He stared back, bewildered.

            The witch convulsed, making a gulping sound as blood began to dribble over her lower lip. Her face contorted in confusion, and she glanced down at her chest. Arthur followed her gaze, and saw the point of his sword, stained pink, protruding from her heart.

            Princess Guinevere appeared, putting her face close to Morgana’s ear. “For Elyan!” she said fiercely. She gave a final jerk, pushing the blade another inch further, and Morgana’s eyes rolled back as she gurgled.

            Then she collapsed, sliding off _Excalibur_ and leaving the blade painted crimson. Arthur could only stare at Guinevere, who glared down at the witch contemptuously as she struggled for breath, her lifeblood pumping out of her. Finally, Arthur had the presence of mind to heave himself up to safety. He slithered over the wall and fell, rolling onto his back to catch his breath.

            “H—How?” he asked her, brow pinched and sweaty.

            “I grabbed on at the last second,” the princess replied. She stepped backward, repulsed, as Morgana’s clawed hand reached out. As Arthur watched, the pale smooth skin began to shrivel like a grape in the sun.

            A sudden thought seized Arthur. “The lamp!” he gasped. “Merlin!”

            Guinevere jolted with a gasp. She’d forgotten! “Here, I have it,” she said, running over to the other side of the turret, where the lamp lay on its side. She rushed it back to Arthur, who scrambled to point it at Morgana. He furiously rubbed the cold golden side, all too aware that Morgana was fading fast, and worried that he might have been too late.

            Blue wisps of light appeared, streaming out of the hole in Morgana’s chest. They converged upon themselves, creating a small, spinning orb. It did not glow as brightly as before, severely weakened. The light was sucked back into the lamp, which heated up slightly.

            Arthur held the lamp closer to him, feeling the life force within it. He hoped it was Merlin. He thought it was, but he found that he couldn’t be sure, as he could not read it as he had when Merlin had been at full strength in the cave.

            The pair shared a glance, then looked at Morgana. She had been reduced to a dead, shriveled husk.

            “Arthur,” Guinevere said suddenly. “Look!”

            He glanced up, and saw, to his immense relief, that the storm was finally subsiding. The clouds lightened and dispersed as though they had never been there. The sun streamed down, shining brightly against the whitewash of the castle.

            They laughed happily. The princess jumped up and down for joy, tears streaming. Arthur stood, closing his eyes and letting his face bask in the sunlight. He started in shock when he felt warm hands grasp the sides of his head and pull him down, then a pair of soft, full lips on his own. He stood stock-still, eyes very wide. He saw the moment the princess realized her actions and became mortified at them. She quickly released him and stepped away, ducking her head. Arthur averted his gaze as well. They both blushed heavily.

            “We should find the others,” Guinevere said.

            “Yes,” Arthur cleared his throat. “And we’ve got to get Merlin back to his body, where he belongs.”

            “Oh, er,” she said, “your sword.”

            “Thank you.”

            The two shifted awkwardly from foot to foot as he sheathed _Excalibur_ , then set out, Merlin tucked securely under Arthur’s arm.

            Neither looked back.

{Birthright}

            “An’ then Arthur ‘ere,” Gwaine said animatedly, “threw ‘imself t’ one side, avoidin’ the blast o’ fire Morgana sent ‘is way!” He might have demonstrated it had he not been riding a very tall horse. He took a swig from his waterskin, which he had filled with the strongest liquor he could find in the castle’s cellar. “She summoned up another one, an’ ‘e rolled away jus’ in time, ‘e did!”

            “That most certainly did not happen,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. “You weren’t even there, Gwaine.”

            “Tha’ where this part comes in,” Gwaine continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Arthur tried t’ jump out o’ th’ way o’ _another_ one, but th’ poor lad struck ‘is ‘ead, an’ tha’s why ‘e cannae remember it all.”

            “Oh, come _off_ it!” Arthur said, exasperated. But he joined in the laughter.

            He had come to learn, after Morgana had effectively kidnapped him and Gwen, that the others had panicked. Gwaine and Percival had arrived at the servant’s entrance too late to help, and likely would not have been able to do anything if they had been there, anyway. They had run to the throne room, hoping that that was where they had been taken, but no luck.

            It was not until Arthur and Guinevere found their way back to Morgana’s room that they ran into each other, much to the others’ joy. They had, after assuring the ladies of the court that all was well, set out to the Lake of Avalon to restore Merlin. Horses, food and wine, and clean garments for the men had been provided. They had taken quick baths, too, but the sewer odor was particularly strong. Guinevere and Gaius pretended not to notice.

            “Here we are,” Gaius said contentedly. Merlin’s lamp had been placed lovingly in Gaius’ horse’s saddlebag for safety. The warlock had yet to appear, but the bishop thought that was because he was much drained after having been used for his powers.

            The horses stalked through the trees and entered the secret clearing, revealing the glittering lake. The sight was far more breathtaking in daylight than it was under a stormy sky.

            “I could just live here,” Guinevere sighed wistfully. But then she remembered that she had effectively lived lakeside for about a day, after fleeing Morgana’s madness and her brother’s death. Before they had left, she had ordered that Elyan’s body be prepared for a funeral. It would take place the very next morning. But until then, she refused to allow her grief to rule her. Restoring Merlin was to be a happy occasion.

            They all dismounted. Guinevere blushed as Arthur offered her his hand, but she accepted it with a shy smile. He returned it.

            Their cheeks turned even redder as they turned and spotted Gwaine waggling his eyebrows provocatively at them.

            Sir Percival assisted Gaius in stepping down from his horse. The old man retrieved Merlin’s lamp from the bag and set off toward the lake’s edge.

            “All right,” he muttered under his breath. “Freya?” he called, holding up the lamp.

            “Give me the lamp,” spoke her voice from the watery depths, but she did not appear.

            The others watched in shock as Gaius suddenly reared back and pitched the lamp into the lake. It arced high in the air, sunlight glinting off its sleek golden form as it spun gracefully, then fell toward the water. A pale, slender arm rose from the water and caught it, holding it aloft. Arthur relaxed; he hadn’t realized that he had tensed.

            The lamp slowly descended under the still surface and disappeared from view.

            “But what of Merlin?” Leon asked, evidently stumped.

            “He will come,” Gaius responded calmly.

            As though that were the cue, the water bulged not far from the shore, and the same boat from before rose and turned over. Without waiting for any passengers to board, it glided toward the center of the lake. Arthur belatedly realized that Merlin would need a ride back.

            His anticipation rose monumentally as the boat neared the middle of the water. Arthur could feel the others tensing beside him, and was glad to know that he was not the only one.

            The boat stopped.

            Arthur held his breath.

            With an almighty splash, Merlin appeared, grabbing onto the boat like a lifeline. He clung to the portside, practically shrieking. “Oh, gods!” he gasped. His voice carried over the water to them, and the panic in his voice was evident.

            “What?” Gaius shouted back. “Merlin, what is it?!”

            “Oh, gods!” Merlin screamed again, unmoving. “I’m freezing!”

            “Oh.” Gaius rolled his eyes fondly.

            Arthur grinned. “Well, get into the boat, you idiot!” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “I’ll build you a fire.”

            Merlin twisted around and saw them, shivering violently. A grin lit up his face, and he waved excitedly at them. “Don’t bother!” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to burn yourself, like you did me when you dropped my lamp, you bloody prat!” But there was no heat in his voice.

            Arthur shook his head and watched in amusement as the scrawny warlock tried to pull himself up into the watercraft. He at last managed it, flopping into it like a hooked fish.

            He sat up a moment later and leaned over the edge of the boat, peering into the depths. Merlin smiled as Freya emerged. She reached up and cupped his cheek with one hand, and shared a chaste kiss with him.

            The boat began to move.

            The lovers ran their fingertips along the length of the other’s outstretched arm, prolonging the touch for as long as possible before separation. Once Merlin was too far, Freya dissolved like smoke, and the warlock was left alone on the lake.

            “So,” Merlin grinned as he neared. He shivered in his wet clothes, but the sun had warmed him considerably already. He stepped out of the boat before it had even come to a stop, and sent it back immediately with a flick of his fingers. “When is the coronation?”

            “Well,” Gaius chuckled, “I’m afraid there isn’t one. Guinevere cannot assume the throne without a husband, as per the will of her late father, who had meant for Elyan to succeed him. And—that’s been impossible for quite some time. Unfortunately, Guinevere’s suitor Lancelot was killed during a hunt. I shall have to remain Regent until such time that the princess marries.” He shook his head.

            Merlin blinked at him, then glanced at Guinevere, then at Arthur, then back to his old friend. “I meant Arthur’s coronation.”

            Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Gwaine made some sort of noise. Gaius arched an eyebrow even as Guinevere’s brow scrunched in confusion.

            “Sorry?” the bishop said.

            “You know,” Merlin said, edging around them and moving toward the ashes of the fire that Gaius had built the previous day. “Arthur _is_ the rightful heir to the throne of Camelot.”

Gaius took a closer look at the blond, who shuffled uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “Well,” he said after a moment, “it does all add up: the resemblance to Constantine, the sword pulling, and Freya’s prophecy.”

“Uh-huh,” Merlin said. His blue eyes flashed gold, and the fire rebuilt itself, igniting at once. The warlock held his arms over the flames, drying his shirt sleeves.

“Did you know of this?” Guinevere asked Arthur.

“No,” he said. Then he amended, “Well, I did pull the sword from the stone. But all I know of my family is that my mother died during childbirth, so I never knew her, and my father disappeared when I was young—went on an important errand and never came back. His name was Uther.”

“I dub thee Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot,” Merlin announced from his lounging position. He had shifted so that he could hold his legs over the fire, leaning back on his elbows with his head tipped back to look at the group standing by.

Guinevere blinked at him, then looked back at Arthur. “Well,” she said. “It’s only right, then, isn’t it?”

“But,” Arthur said abruptly, “I don’t want to take away your birthright or anything. Marry me, Gwen.”

Her chocolate eyes widened in surprise. “What, now?” she blurted.

He blushed. “No, not now! I mean, well, if you want, but—I mean…”

She let out a huff of laughter. “I would love to marry you, Arthur Pendragon,” she smiled.

“Thank God,” Arthur grinned goofily.

“Huzzah!” Gwaine cheered drunkenly. “We needs more wines.”

Everyone chuckled, and graciously accepted the drinks Merlin obligingly magicked into existence.

“All hail King Arthur!” Leon toasted, raising his glass.

“All hail!”

Gaius raised his own glass. “And to Queen Guinevere.”

“Queen Guinevere!”

Merlin grinned. “To Camelot!”

“To Camelot!”

Guinevere raised hers: “To victory!”

“Victory!”

Arthur joined in with “To the Lady of the Lake!”

“To the Lady of the Lake!” was interspersed with “To Freya!”

Percival raised his glass. “To long life.”

“Long life!” they cheered.

“To drink!”

No one toasted along with Gwaine’s, but they drank anyway, and that was enough for him.


	10. Epilog

Epilog

            “A tournament,” Merlin repeated, deadpan. He and Arthur were walking together, as was their habit when they talked, through the castle. They planned to go out to the pasture and watch the knight training.

            “Yes,” Arthur said, “a tournament.” He sipped from his goblet, watching Merlin over the rim. The Court Sorcerer appeared to be giving it some thought, but then he shook his head.

            “It’s too dangerous.”

            “Well, it’s too late, anyway,” Arthur shrugged. “I’ve already got one in the works.”

            “ _Arthur_!” Merlin whined. “You supercilious prat!”

            “Gwaine likes the idea of it,” Arthur insisted. “It will be his first tournament since his knighting ceremony. Leon and Percival have been helping him train for it.”

            “Oh,” Merlin said, tone turning quite sarcastic. “Well, that makes it all right, then. Prat!”

            “ _And_ ,” the king continued, holding up a finger, “Gwen finds it a good idea as well. You’re outnumbered.”

            “Please tell me that you’re not competing, at least.”

            “What kind of king does not compete in his own kingdom’s tournament, _Mer_ lin?”

            “The smart kind,” Merlin muttered. “All right, fine. When is the even taking place? I need some time to prepare some protection and anti-cheating spells, and Gaius will need to stock up on supplies for the injured.”

            “Oh, there will be plenty of time for that,” Arthur assured him, placing an arm around his friend’s shoulders. He handed his emptied goblet off to a passing servant, who curtsied and hurried off with it.

            Merlin frowned as they passed through the empty courtyard. “Where is everyone?” he asked suspiciously.

            “It’s lunchtime, isn’t it?” the king responded flippantly.

            “Arthur…”

            “Yes, Merlin?”

            Merlin shook his head, already feeling a headache forming. “Never mind,” he said wearily.

{Birthright}

            The crowd roared deafeningly, drowning out the din of metal against metal. Gwaine stood by victoriously as his opponent was dragged off the field. Merlin applauded despite himself, seated in honor beside a fully-armored Arthur. Guinevere was sitting on his other side, wearing a flower crown. She had given her favor to Arthur, of course, who wore the kerchief around his bicep to proudly display his wife’s affections, despite the fact that Arthur had lost in the third round.

            It was the final round, and Gwaine had won battle after battle. His armor, which had been specially painted green for the occasion, was dented and scratched up, and showed silver. But it was no matter—it was testament to his fortitude.

            His opponent walked into the ring.

            No one knew who the mysterious man was, but he had been dubbed the Black Knight for his armor. Unlike Gwaine’s, his paint was still nearly impeccable. Hardly a blow had been landed on him.

            Once the men had shown one another respect and courtesy, as chivalry demanded, Arthur stood from his seat and raised his hand. The crowd fell silent.

            The king looked sternly at each of the fighters as though to remind them that no cheating or bad form would be tolerated. Then he brought his hand down, signaling the beginning of the match.

            The crowd roared, rooting for their favorites as the adversaries began to circle each other, looking for weaknesses and openings.

            The Green Knight struck first, theatrically twirling his sword and clashing it against the Black Knight’s. They appeared to be evenly matched, neither gaining the upper hand. Back and forth they parried, slashed, and blocked.

            Gwaine finally grew frustrated and threw his shield aside. His helmet was quick to follow, and he shook out his shaggy hair, which was drenched with sweat. The Black Knight followed suit, revealing a head full of dark curls. He was too far for anyone to make out any other features, but Gwaine hesitated in surprise, then grinned.

            They resumed their battle. With both hands free to wield their weapons, the fight was much fiercer, especially since they could better see as well.

            Merlin found himself on the edge of his seat the longer it went on. He knew that one of them would soon begin to flag, unable to keep up the ferocious beating.

            It was the Green Knight’s strength that began to fail. His movements became slower, more sluggish, until at last his sword was knocked out of his numbed hands. Gwaine graciously yielded, though the Black Knight stepped back to allow him to retrieve his sword.

            Many roared their approval, while those who had not rooted for the Black Knight either grudgingly clapped or openly booed. The royal couple stood, applauding the good show.

            The knights approached, and bowed deeply.

            Arthur leaned over the railing and first congratulated them both on the match. Then he addressed the Black Knight. Merlin could not hear over the tumultuous sounds of the crowd, but he presumed that the king had asked the young man his name.

            He stood upright again and held up his hand for silence, which was obeyed. “The winner,” he announced, “of the first annual tournament of Camelot: Sir Mordred!”

            Merlin watched Mordred. A chill raced up his spine as they met eyes—eerily familiar eyes.

            _Emrys_ , said a voice in his head.

            Mordred smirked.

**End.**


End file.
